Amor Vincit Omnia
by Musique et Amour
Summary: Love Conquers All. An extensive retelling of the story that combines known versions, with a few believable changes. Most of all, it reveals what could have happened on those down times, and the characters inner most thoughts.
1. Chapter 01

_**Disclaimer:** Of course I don't own the original story. Nor do I wish I did. I'd be dead if that was the case! _

_**Constructive criticisms** _– _not flames _– are _welcome. It's one of the ways I can get closer to perfecting my writing. If all you're going to say is "this story sucks" or something of the sort, don't bother reviewing. Those types don't help me any unless you tell me _why_ it sucks. _

_I hope you enjoy. If it hadn't been for my Muse this story would've never taken place. _

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Keeping time, the chorus girls stepped delicately into their first pirouettes, thin sprouts of blossoming children twirling easily into their next steps as the gauze of their pink taffeta skirts billowed around them. Fragile arms lifted in perfected unison as their instructor, Madame Giry, stood watching from behind the accompanying piano. Her icy gaze befell each and every one of the girls, scrutinizing each arch of the back as a single frail leg lifted behind this girl and that, barking out commands such as 'Limber up, girls!' or 'Watch those pointes!' She demanded nothing less than absolute perfection, on stage behind the glare of the foot lights, or off. 

One specific creature, Giry's inspection found, was less than remarkable and sorely lacked the depth of her art. Little Christine Daae, the bright-eyed and oft painfully shy excuse of a dancer whose equally unremarkable voice peeved Giry, had fallen out of step. To conceal her mistake, she struggled quite clumsily to maintain her composure. The child's brimming eyes darted from companion to twirling companion before Giry's calm snapped and she went to tapping that staff upon the stage surface persistently. "Christine, step to the side immediately!" With a brief curtsy, Christine drifted away from the flanks of the ballerinas to do as she was told.

Giry counted above the pounding of her staff to again instruct the girls through the moves.Christine observed the section of the recital where her flaw had become apparent, her cheeks flushing as lithe arms folded behind her back.

The Monsieur Lefevre's nervous tics had become commonplace around the Grand Garnier House. He had often been compared to a long tailed feline in the middle of a room of rocking chairs, especially as of late. He didn't have to speak of his reasons, they were revealed quite well enough through various...accidents that happened here and there. Especially during the mid of his term, when he had refrained from abiding by the warnings he had been given.

First it was the comment from the older woman of the _corps de ballet_, then the notes. The notes that appeared out of no where. Lain on his desk so primly behind a locked door. A _locked_ door. The notes were ever so polite, yet the pure menace could be 'heard' within them. In a way, the old man was grateful for them. This ghost had an eye for art and an ear for music, and often let him know – quite curtly – where the operas needed fixing. _Immediate _fixing.

One of the said notes lay within the man's shaking hands. He was too afraid to open it. Especially after mentioning to a friend off handedly that he was soon to retire. Somehow...this specter knew. 'Of your retirement' was written in blood colored ink on the front.

It was in either disgust or amusement that one's silent regard was held. The ballet was no better than last year's. Most of the dancers had the grace of two legged cows while others had their heads so far up in the clouds they wouldn't be able to see the earth. It was appalling. And it needed to be fixed.

Giry sent Christine a look of disdain, brows lifted as if to accentuate her point that the young dancer most certainly needed immediate attention to her study. Christine, however, had fixed her attention upon Lefevre as he had entered the room quite in haste. She watched, curiously, as he spoke with Reyer before leaving all together. A note had been settled upon Reyer's piano, informing the musician that it was to be delivered to the Madame as soon as possible; a note detailing the specter's displeasure.

Her mistress had moved to scold the child for being less attentive when she, too, had noticed Lefevre. The single tap of her staff against the stage surface brought each remaining dancer to a halt. Little legs and arms began to stretch, the bustle of fabric and feverish whispers filling the silence that the absence of the piano had created.

Picking up the parchment, Giry unfolded the letter and absorbed the red inked scrawl slowly, strangely accustomed to the familiarity of the simple gesture. Fortunately, no one seemed to notice. The girls were too concerned with the gossip that filtered in from the lounge. They really were a pea-brained lot, all save for Christine and her own daughter.

Christine stood still in her place, observing Giry with mild interest as the instructor's daughter, Meg, approached. The blonde, all aglow with some sort of news, was quickly cut off, however, when her stern mother turned, folding the letter as she spoke. "Girls, you may retire for the evening. Monsieur Reyer, thank you for your accompaniment, but I'm afraid I must end rehearsal early this evening."  
_  
_"Are you sure, Madame? There is plenty of work that needs to…be– … As you wish." Reyer was quick to cut off any further protests, not wishing that icy gaze to be leveled upon him. Truly, it was the cane that made him leery.

Gathering the parchments scattered upon the piano's stand, top, and stool, he placed them in some semblance of order and settled them into his satchel, its strap resting over his shoulder. Departing from the piano, he soon vanished back into the labyrinthine bowls of the house's back rooms with a detesting glance cast toward one scruffy fellow carrying coiled ropes toward the stage's backdrop.

The man took his own sweet time in moving, rather ignoring the more proper pianist, while he got himself an eyeful of the young morsels gathered upon the stage. Wiping his nose with a not-quite-clean sleeve, the scene shifter gave a toothy grin when one of the ballerinas glanced over. She promptly made herself as invisible as she could.

Joseph had a habit of frightening the girls by either telling them ghost stories, or just giving them looks that hinted he could eat them alive. Climbing upon one of the high ladders he eventually made it to the rafters and, thumping the rope down, settled upon the beam with a surprisingly accurate balance.

As the girls hurried off into the wings, their puffs of pink and cream gauze gave them the appearance of a candy cloud. Various stage hands and instructors met them there, frazzled over the upcoming performance of _Hannibal. _This musical promised to be the reigning Prima Donna's triumph; the crowning jewel of her overpowering stage career. And, speaking of the devil, Carlotta arrived in the wings, flanked by her entourage. The motley crew was compiled of dressers, wig makers, make up artists, and the scattered admirer lucky enough to get into the diva's good graces.

Her booming voice lifted above the chattering chorus girls, and as she moved towards the stage, she brushed past Christine, her powdered expression twisting into disdain. "Move, Toad,"she snapped before a guttural laugh pursued. Of course, the entourage followed suit and laughed at the meek chorus girl in turn. Eyes cast downward, Christine willingly took the hand of little Meg, who was urging her away from the gathering. "What troubled your mother so, Meg? We've never ended rehearsal this early before."

Poor Piangi. He followed that bloated peacock around as if she was the pride of all Paris, all of France, even. He was not even her husband, yet he sang her praises more loudly than anyone else. Often it was wondered if the woman even felt a sliver for him, or what she had to offer that kept him twittering at her heels.

She was a beautiful woman, perhaps, if one got past that demeanor that made a pit bull look harmless, and all that damned make up. And her _voice_! If it wasn't for the fact that she brought in the audience, coinage gained to pay salaries as well as the upkeep upon the house, she would have been discarded last season. Soprano? More like a screeching parrot.

'Move, Toad.' Just those two words alone were enough to irk, and a loud cry came from above. "Bloody 'ell!" The curse was followed by a solid thump as a tight coil of rope, with its attached sandbag, landed but an inch off to the right of the makeup artist. A few seconds earlier and it might have landed on Carlotta herself. Shaken, Joseph stared off into the shadows, where he swore he saw something dart past him. Then, clearing his throat, he called down. "I didn't do that! T'was the ghost I tell ya. Bloody haunted..." and off his voice trailed into sore grumbles.

Wide eyed, the mousey blonde suddenly picked up speed, her hand clinging tightly to Christine's as if she was her life line. An equally mousey squeak of voice was left in their wake. "Not here. Mother will hear. She has ears like a bat."

_Ghost_. Christine was familiar with the myth. A tale Joseph oft told behind the folds of velvet curtains between rehearsals to frighten the girls out of their wits. Or, to simply garner the clutching of their hands on his coat sleeves as they begged him to walk down a shadowed corridor with them. Her eyes lifted warily to the catwalk above the stage where Joseph's empire seemed unreachable and deadly. A chill went through her small form that she quickly sought to shake as she looked to her companion.

"The dressing rooms then?" She led Meg by the hand through the scattered throngs of people, towards the back corridor leading to the _corps de ballet_ members' dressing rooms. The individual cubicles were pitiful excuses for rooms, the walls thin as sheets, tattered boudoirs that served as their only means of changing in private. Some girls were lucky to even attain a wash bowl and rag, or a chair to relieve themselves from standing on aching feet.

Joseph did his best to ignore the glares that were cast up in his direction. Working off the shakes, he made his way back down to collect the thick rope that now lay harmlessly upon the floor, although he approached it as if it was a snake ready to strike. Soon, he went back to the abyssal height to work upon the curtain that was for the throne room in the upcoming production. There he worked in near-silence once the stage and auditorium were cleared, watching briefly until interest was completely lost.

Positions shifted. Meg took the role of the follower while she and Christine traveled through the passages. Coming at last to one that was far enough away from the stage, and her mother's office, Meg stopped with a settling of talc dusted heels and drug Christine into a cubicle. Leaning out she glanced to and fro then placed a free hand to her chest as if that would help get rid of the repeated pounding of her heart, or cease it from trying to beat out of her chest.

_Where to start? _The ended rehearsal. "Oh!" she exclaimed, then dropped her voice to a whisper as she drew close. "You mean you haven't heard? There's a rumor that the Monsieur Lefevre is retiring and that we're soon to get new managers. Perhaps she has to meet with him to find out who?" A bit of a frown crossed her young face, and she finally released Christine's hand as she stepped over to a chair to sit, glad to be off of her feet for the first time in two hours. "Oh, she's going to dance us to death. It seems no matter how hard we try, we just cannot satisfy her demands."

Christine shared her frown. Her porcelain complexion fixed into a most serious expression, her brow knit as she pondered on this. _New managers? But why?_ Monsieur Lefevre had been with the Opera House for as long as Christine could recall, and though he was indeed aging, she could think of little reason for him to retire _now_. Not when such promise of improvement lay in the upcoming production.

She turned from the door to follow Meg's movements with her heavy eyes, her drained form slouching forward towards the wash stand. A peal of laughter came then with her friend's lament, an agreement she shared, though she was amiable when voicing it. "Perhaps, though I suspect it is something in that letter, and the way Monsieur Lefevre has been acting lately, that has more to do with her temper."

She would say little of her further fears that the talent of the troupe had a hand in the retirement. Half of the girls sounded as if their vocal chords had been replaced with a rusty hinge, even her own. Meg gave some thought to the fact that her mother's usual extended patience had been more like a lit fuse lately. And with it, the manager's nerves were being frazzled. But why? Was it because of this extensive production, one they'd been practicing on for months? Or maybe Carlotta's voice was finally driving him up the wall.

With her thoughts her lips pressed thin, quirking in a bit of a wry smirk as she slid one ballet shoe from her foot and kneaded at her kneel and toe. The door slammed against its hinges and she whipped her head around so fast that blond hair clouded her vision before she darted upright. Her hands slipped back quickly, hiding the shoe she had just taken off. Christine, too, had all but jumped out of her skin, turning swiftly to find Giry eyeing down the pair with impatience. A huff followed her untimely entrance, arms shooting into the air from her sides. "Meg Giry, at last..._Ugh_! To the carriage!"

Christine was wise in the presence of authority and thus bowed her head cautiously while mother and daughter exchanged the brief dialogue. Order given, Meg gave a shallow curtsy and a mumbled 'yes, mother' before heading past Christine. "We'll speak later," she whispered hurriedly, continuing on before a cane could find its way smartly against a tutu cushioned backside. Only when Meg offered a hurried smile did little Christine respond, a soft smile climbing to her delicate features before dissipating all together when left alone with her instructor.

A sheet of ice had settled over the older woman. A singular finger tapped against the silvered head of the cane as she regarded Christine directly. "You, child, need to get your mind back upon your dancing. If ever you had your mind there to begin with." Such scathing remarks weren't common, but her patience had worn quite thin.

She took the verbal slap humbly, her curtsy short as she spoke a clear and gentle "Yes, Madame". Her arms folded behind her back, a sliver of a darkened curl fell into her view. She lifted a single hand to push it aside before her eyes lifted skittishly to Giry.

"If you are still traipsing about in an hour's time, there is a metronome beside Monsieur Reyer's piano. I dare say you should take it into your employ. Learn some timing, child. Perhaps without others about, you will be able to concentrate upon your own steps instead of those around you. I will be placing you through paces tomorrow, before the others if I must."

If it wasn't for the fact that finding those that could dance and sing with some talent was difficult – though in this case, the note mentioned, it was a very thin amount of talent – many of those upon the line would be removed, including the little woman standing before her. Though she knew she was being harsh, she dared not lighten on the girls. Accidents were the last thing she desired by angering the mercurial specter. "I trust that I'm understood, Miss Daae?"

The young line girl bore the weight of her instructor's harsh demands, radiant eyes lowered to humbly observe her cream pointe shoes. During regular intervals of Giry's speech, she nodded her head in acknowledgment. And surely it must be said of little Christine Daae that this somewhat demeaning advice would be taken to heart. After all, was she not the child of a man who instilled in her delicate heart the thrill of dance and song? Again, a curtsy bent the wry tutu'd form. Again, the obedient sincerity of an eager, though oft flighty, pupil; "Yes, Madame."

Thin lips pressed even more into a set line as Madame Giry regarded the young woman for a few silent moments. While she knew the note giver was doing well for the house's operas, the manager was being sent into a nervous breakdown, casting more duties upon her. She didn't mind helping, to bear the weight, but even the stone shouldered Madame needed rest. "I bid you good evening, Miss Daae." No further words stated, she turned around with a rustle of gray skirts about her ankles and stepped out of the cubicle.

Christine's pure eyes stayed occupied with memorizing the tiny intertwining lines of her gauze skirt until Giry left her, closing the door to the cubicle and leaving the child alone with her thoughts and an hour looming over her head while the house emptied. With rehearsals over, most were going to their respective homes.

It seemed almost a punishment to leave her there. As a rebuke to her for her earlier mistakes, she must endure the creeping, disarming silence of the emptying Opera House. There were thousands of tiny noises that she took in during that solemn time, from the settling of the plaster and boards that framed the dressing hall to the muffled stir of voices far away, perhaps even above her in the dancers' lounge.

She lowered herself into the chair her companion had only moments before occupied, mimicking the way in which her little friend had removed her shoe to knead at the tightness of muscles at the arch of her dainty foot. Heavy sighs escaped from her pink lips.

Seconds turned into minutes; minutes accumulated toward the hour. That lone hour was going to be slow to pass what with the silence that was languidly creeping over the expansive house. By the time it had passed, only a few would remain within the building, mostly dancers waiting for the next series of taxi coaches that would take them home.

The manager lingered, drinking away his troubles with plenty of brandy, as did Joseph who was drinking also, but with an untroubled mind. For a drunk he did an amazing job at keeping to the rafters and beams. The Chief of Flies had the balance of a cat, more so when he was inebriated. The flicker of the few electric lights betrayed that the main ones were being turned off; though the lights near the stage, the hallways near the office, and the cubicles remained on with a gentle hum.

Even the candles seemed to shudder with that thrum of cut lights.


	2. Chapter 02

It was with this electric cue that Christine's head lifted towards the door, away from her otherwise attentive task of soothing the ache from her tiny feet. Another great sigh was heaved, one of exhaustion that proved itself most evident when she stood to exit the tiny cubicle. Peeking out into the abandoned corridor, the little chorus girl idly wished for Joseph. Shadows deceived the senses and as she stepped into the quieted hall, she quickened her pace until she was all but running towards the main stage.

This too was abandoned. The foot lights and those of the auditorium had been cut off, and even the grand chandelier that loomed and was often lit as if shining a light into Heaven itself, was dark. All was in shadow except for the scattered gas lamps in the wings, and in this thick artificial night, Christine found herself longing for her father.

She had never been a child of fantastic imagination – her soul lacked the depth of her father's art, the passion of the performance. And so it was natural that at her first thought of a phantom who dwelled beneath the Opera House, Christine was determined to shackle all fears by occupying herself with Giry's suggested rehearsal.

Approaching the piano that Monsiuer Reyer had but an hour before abandoned, she turned on the wooden metronome. The device quickly ticked out the nimble time of the routine, and stepping onto the stage Christine drifted, without any specific concentration, into the steps. Each position was fixed with the grace and tutelage of her years of instructions. Indeed, great potential lay nestled in the willowy figure, but it was without true meaning that the steps were executed. She hummed aloud the airy composition that accompanied the routine, rising and falling as if upon the crest of a wave.

The young woman might have thought she was alone, though there was, in fact, another. His presence was silent for the time being. Watching, admiring. Limber and deft steps took him across the higher grates of the stage, then along the lower grottoes near the back once a roped ladder was descended upon. Lanterns offered flickers of light, as if disturbed by an unseen and unfelt breeze, casting licks of shadows along the stage and heavy, blood red velvet curtains. Between the tick-tick-tick of the metronome there was sharper, heavier click. From left to right, footlights flickered on, flaring to life, then dropping to a steady burn within the concave holders, casting the light that she needed upon the stage.

"Well, well now. What we gots 'ere, eh? A lit'le bird that got left ...behind." The final word paused upon as a hand raked across an ill mustached mouth. The Chief gave a wide, toothy grin once he was illuminated by the final footlight off to the right of the stage.

Peace was something that was expected at this time of night. The solitude and silence of the auditorium was now being broken by the steady ticking and talking. And somewhere on high, another curtain subtly shifted.

As each limb rounded into delicate and more carefully executed lifts, the sudden flare of the footlights drew her twirling form to a quick halt, in time to find Joseph leering from the corner of the stage. Familiar, though hardly acquainted, with the ways of the dominant sex, Christine stood silent for a moment, drawing in deep breaths as the foot lights continued to pop into life. The lumbering stage hand eyed her up and down with the ferocity of a predator upon the threshold of its prey.

"Madame Giry requested I remain behind to rehearse, Monsieur, but only for a little while. I am sorry if I've disturbed you." With the sincere apology came not the usual curtsy but a turn on her dusted heels to venture towards the ticking device. However, something further troubled the child and though still standing with her back to the man, she glanced warily towards the gleaming foot lights.

Taking another deep pull from the dinged up flask he held loosely in his hand, Joseph emptied it, greedily tipping the last few droplets from it, then peering down the neck with a decidedly disgruntled expression. Returning the cap to the tin, he tucked it into his belt and pressed away from the pillar to make his way up on the stage quietly. But as all drunkards tend to forget, their version of quiet is normal -- or louder -- to a person practicing sobriety and his steps rapped with a pronounced thump.

Booted footsteps drew him along the expanse of the wooden stage as he thrust his thumbs into the line of his belt, tucking beneath the worn leather. "Disturbed? Oh no, not a'tall missy. It's good to have some comp'ny doncha think? There bein' bloody ghosts and all." There he went, with the stories. He grinned broadly, leaning close from behind, close enough that she could smell not only the liquor on his breath but the three days – or more – without a bath. He wasn't called Chief of Flies for more than the way he maneuvered about the cat walks. "Ain'tcha afraid, bird? 'E could be in here right now, just watchin'. Ready to gobble up a lit'le thing like you."

_Indeed? _High above muted gold flickered with amusement. Curtain fell to its former spot, quivering briefly with the faintest dusting of movement's breeze.

The girl flinched from the stench of his hygiene, or lack thereof. She squirmed under the weight of his gaze and inched past him to retreat further along the stage, turning in a swift rustle of her taffeta fabric to observe him.

"Ghost, Monsieur?" Surely the rambling of a drunkard. A simple tale to entice the pretty young things of the troupe, perhaps even Christine, if such a romantic notion appealed. Perhaps it did beneath the layers of her sensible nature, though often a dreamer's demeanor captivated her tender, maiden's heart.

Who was she to dream, really? An orphan under the care of a benevolent old woman, a simple chorus girl that could not afford to aspire to prima position – one could see her rare and troublesome predicament. The corner of her soft lips lifted as if to share the amusement of that unknown presence. There was, however, also a nervousness in the wide eyes that glanced about excitedly.

"Do you really think he exists, this ghost? Have you really seen him, as you've told the girls? Oh, you _must_ tell me of it."

Predator to prey, Joseph gave a serpent's grin when the girl skidded away from him. It made the chase all the more fun. Though he liked to leer and ogle the young women, there hadn't been a case of them coming up accosted. Perhaps it was because he never dared to touch them, or maybe they knew better than to speak ill of him after witnessing the looming strength in those broad shoulders and wide hands. He rolled his shoulders in a shrug, the gap toothed grin never leaving his lips. He even hissed in a bit of air through that empty hole. "Oh aye, aye. I've seen 'im. Hideous thing, 'e is. Haunts these halls, 'e does. Takes quite a fancy to the young ones I've heard."

_Or would that be you, Monsieur Buquet?_ Another shift of weight and the faintest creaks came from above. The house settling, no doubt, as it tended to do when winter came. Wood swelling as the nights grew colder.

Lifting a hand, Buquet scratched his fingers through his ill kempt hair, as if he was trying to remember exactly what he had told the others. "No worries though, bird. I'm here to prot–..." Before the word could even leave his lips, another voice was suddenly heard.

"Monsieur Buquet! I trust your duties are finished, no?" Dabbing at a pale brow, mottled with stress and worry, the manager had paused in his trip to the door upon noticing that the stage lights were on. Joseph grimaced, glancing over his shoulder.

She'd found herself so engrossed with his story that the arrival of Monsiuer Lefevre had startled from her a small shriek of fear. Her tiny form sprang a good inch from the stage, heart fluttering within her breast as she turned to grant a dubious curtsy to her superior. Oh, the horror of being seen conversing with the grimy and disreputable stage hand. Still, a faint figurative aroma of thrilling curiosity came with this ghost Joseph had spoken of.

She began to shift uncomfortably, determined after this encounter, to never give a second thought to the mysterious that lay buried within the Opera House again. How she hoped Joseph would leave where she wished him to be around moments before. She found the deep silence of her rehearsal did her some good after all.

Smacking his lips faintly, Joseph smiled amiably enough to the portly man. "Aye, gov'na. 'Bout to be on me way out, actually." Such terrible French, and he didn't bother learning it well enough to sound like a proper gentleman. Joseph...just wasn't gentlemanly material. Tucking his kerchief back into his breast pocket, Lefevre nodded gently, then gave a warm smile to Christine. "See to it that you get home, child. This is no place for you to be lingering." Joseph side glanced toward Christine, as if to say 'see? Ghost.'

Very glad to be going home, the old man traveled to the door with a briskness that belied his obese stature. Untucking his hat from his back pocket, Joseph placed it back upon his head, tugging the front down slightly before turning his attention back toward Christine with a gaze that lingered from head to heel then back again. Another smack of his lips and the corner of his mouth lifted. "Mm.. I'll be seein' ya around, bird. Maybe getcha to sing for me." More meaning lay behind the statement that Christine, with her innocent ways, didn't catch. He winked at her, then made his way down the short flight of stairs, whistling some old ditty.

Christine nodded to the manager, noting his obvious distress. Joseph's remark, however bemused her. She found it quite strange that he had asked her to sing. She made no response but watched him leave, a soft sigh of relief accompanying his exit. Alone again at last and left to the thoughts that had earlier consumed her: her father, her dancing, the upcoming production, and somewhere, towards the darker recesses of her mind, the tale of a ghost that stalked the lonely halls of the Opera House by night.

She returned to the piano after a moment of certain stillness, bringing to life again the metronome that kept steady time with her dance. She envisioned a crowd before her, wearing elegant gowns and evening wear, pressed into the plush velvet chairs and looming overhead in the private boxes. She could almost hear all the shouting, the clink of wine glasses, the laughter from the lounge where patrons all clamored to meet this bright new star. She was a star, in her imagination. She stumbled halfway into the first turn but quickly recovered, brow knit in feverish concentration as she moved with a new grace, divine limbs lifting carefully, daintily as a night blooming flower lifts its wilted petals to the rays of the moon.

Blissful silence again reigned, but it was swiftly destroyed when that damnable machine started to tick again. While Joseph's presence was gone, the reminder of it lingered in the form of brandy and old musk, over powering the dust that settled here and there upon the large backstage area. How was one to concentrate when there was a problem lurking within the wideness of the auditorium in the form of a willowy young woman, dancing her cares away upon the stage. Or... trying to dance. Her rhythm was just the slightest bit off.

To keen eyes, her steps faltered, and it seemed that her mind was elsewhere, beyond focusing on what she was supposed to be doing. Distaste and disinterest came swiftly, and attention was turned to something of more importance. Set between the loose clasp of fingers, shod in soft hide, were parchments filled with notes upon notes; an unfinished score – one that had been uncompleted for years now – twenty or more to be precise. Perfection must be met, and thus far, twelve copies had met their fate within the flames of a hearth. It was soon to be thirteen copies.

The further she pressed on, the more swooping attempts she made at majesty, the more her failure became evident. At last she stopped, shutting off the ticking device to once again indulge in the silence. Tutu'd backside was planted to the piano bench slowly, eyes cast to her lap where folded hands melded as if in prayer, thoughts jumbled with desire for release but finding none. _Father, you promised me an Angel and still my soul yearns, for what, I know_ _not. My voice, my dancing…. I find it hard to concentrate when all around me there is a consuming loneliness. I miss you, my precious father. Please, don't leave me here._

Tears brimmed in her eyes, darkened by the shadows that splayed upon the stage. She sniffled a bit quite childishly, rising in her resolve to return to her caretaker's estate. Quiet footsteps led her off stage and again towards the emptied corridor near the cubicle were her coat and scarf awaited her. She had not the mind to cast wary glances behind her, too enveloped in her melancholy to have concern for a ghost.

When the ticking ceased, cat-like gaze lifted, resting upon the figure below and lingering there with an idle regard. The same regard one might give to a guppy within a fish bowl, doing its careless laps, unaware of the feline that lurked just above. Good, she was leaving. Maybe some peace would finally settle over the auditorium, one of only two places where concentration and inspiration could be found.

Soundlessly papers shifted, a weight lowered onto heavy beams, and a shrouded form moved toward the lower floor. With the need to gain true privacy, the footlights were cut out a moment too early, while she lingered still within their glow near the entrance. Snuffed out sharply, the flames gave a protesting hiss, then there was silence again.

_That_, Christine noticed. The light with which she had sought guidance towards the back corridors was partially drawn from the footlights of the stage, and their sudden extinguishing left her in a partial darkness that took her several moments to grow accustomed to. Pressing herself against the far wall, she turned to eye the darkened stage in fear, each hair standing on fragile end as she dared not creep an inch in either direction.

If a ghost this trickster be, fine, but if it was the likes of Joseph or some other stage hand of his kind, Christine feared the worst. And perhaps it was a foolish thing of her to do, to call out pensively, "Who's there?" when of course any sensible young woman would've by now been at home, tucked safely away in her bed behind locks and layers of protective love. Foolish thing to linger in the threshold of that hallway, but curiosity caught her.

It didn't take long for the series of ropes to be scaled with that deft, preternatural ease, and a beam to be used as a seat again. Parchments were scooped up and his swathed form rested back, settling into the silence that surrounded him like a second cloak. The first cloak dangled harmlessly along the side of the beam. With one idle hand it was drawn up, laid in a wrap around the slender, yet strong form like a set of coiling wings. Her voice was heard, and his gaze again shifted, but this time upward to the heavens.

_Damn you,_ he thought blasphemously. _Damn you straight to hell. _Such a foul thing, to curse God as he so often did. Eyes then dropped, resting almost contemptuously upon the shadow draped figure of the young ingénue. The dreamer, her name lagged. Her dancing was recalled, but not her singing. She had a pleasant enough speaking voice, and by that shriek that she gave earlier, he could tell she could probably reach the higher scales. But truly, what interest would he have in a ballet rat?

For a moment he considered frightening her off, to see how much it would take before left him to his peace. The parchments were placed aside again, and about three minutes after her question, came the steady tick-tick-_ticking_ of the metronome.


	3. Chapter 03

It seemed an eternity in those three minutes of silence, awaiting a response that was granted only in the startling and eerie time kept by the sudden revival of the metronome. There was no stir to run, no impish squeak like the one that had previously expressed her scare. There was nothing but the sharp intake of breath and the rising of downy soft hairs on her arms.

Her options were grim, and after another eternity of seconds had passed a dainty foot peeled cautiously forward. She was setting out for that ticking device, to quench its steady _tick tick_ing. Even in the dark, though her eyes had yet to adjust, she could imagine the thin little stick bobbing to and fro. Her steps went not with the beat it assigned and had it not been that she was so perplexed by fear, she would have scolded herself for venturing forth. She was such a foolish child and still one so accustomed to routine, to order. She reached out before her, arms outstretched, fumbling blindly for the piano and thus the position of the source of the sound.

Black hide curled along wood, and with a gentle lift the steady tick paused. Clothed in shadow and equally black garb, it was easy to meld with the lick of darkness. He even brushed so close that she just might have been able to feel the faintest graze of cloak. Then...the ticking started once more, five feet behind and off to her right.

She was a brave thing indeed. Little Meg Giry had been quick to go rushing off into the halls once when she heard the piano playing 'by itself.' Even the ragged Joseph nearly had a heart attack when he saw white floating amidst black. There were times when small things could amuse, and now, apparently, was one of them.

She was another step closer to the culprit of the consistent source of her agitation, when again it stopped. Christine inhaled another quick breath, heart thumping as if to break the bind of her breast. For that brief second, all was calm, until again, that _ticking. _This time, more distant, further way, but still near, still ringing true to the strict rhythm its narrow pick set.

Joseph, set out to frighten her? A ghost assuring her of its loathsome existence? Oh, if only little Daae knew. She turned slowly to trace with her veiled eyes the path towards the far corner of the stage, familiar with the sensation of this blind pursuit. It was akin to a parlor game; a blindfold around the brow , the taunting of a small trinket or candy from a flirtatious patron lingering in shadow behind the thin mask of cotton or satin. Always in reach, but for all the tries that the little clutching hands made, it always proved itself _un_reachable.

That was this sensation and rather than throw a tantrum or flee from the darkened stage, she stood still at last, lilting voice lowered to but a whisper that the inattentive ear could have easily ignored. "Man or spirit?"

Had she gone for the metronome this time, she'd have found it at the very spot where it was last laid. That game could be played only so often before it lost its novelty. While she couldn't see him, he could see her quite clearly. 'Eyes of a cat,' the Persian had once said. He was simply accustomed to the darkness, more than any other person he had ever met. His lifetime had been lived within it; it was his shelter, a full bodied mask that kept him away from prying eyes.

He was tempted to answer her, throw his voice off to one side than the other, but he remained completely silent. Beneath the thick drape of cloth his arms loosely curled against each other, head faintly tipped downward to further conceal his already shadowed features beneath the brim of regally canted fedora. Honeyed gaze shifted from her, over to the ticking object, then back when she ceased to move further.

_Just how close can I get to her before she'd sense me_, he wondered. He moved from his stationary position, cloth lapping lovingly around his heels in a silent caress, as equally quiet steps drew him toward her side, then around to her back. Semi-circling, with a grace akin to a hunting feline, he silently stalked her.

Swallowing the lump that had choked her throat, she stood solemn and still half expecting to not receive an answer. It was almost as if she knew, without a question, that what lingered had a story, a basic shape, a name, a _soul. _Perhaps it was that curiosity that held her fast when the strangest sensation of all – that of being watched – came upon her.

Christine was hardly deft to that queer fixation of the skin as it seemed to crawl upon itself, fidgeting without actually making a move to rid itself of that unseen weight. She dared not glance over either shoulder, dared not move for fear the impending horror she was sure awaited her would spring forth, wrecking its will on her slender form.

From his distance she was, indeed, quite the sight. Christine had grown up a somewhat homely child, quiet and simple in her ways, raised by a father that adored his daughter, and his music. In her dance taffeta she appeared as an angel, sculpted in cream gauze and laced shoes, nude tights and the wide curve of her bodice. Healthy brown curls fell to the small of her back, pulled from her neck and cheeks by a wide strip of satin the same delicate color as her tutu. Wide eyes, doe-like in the way they seemed to absorb every new atmosphere and face, were separated by a button nose. Her complexion was clear and her cheeks apple bright, though momentarily robbed of color by the circumstances. Her ample breast heaved ardently and her eyes darted to and fro in their vain struggle to peel away the darkness.

The closer he came to her, the more he realized that she wasn't as young as the other ballet rats that he saw during rehearsals. Always from afar, he watched them, not wanting to make his presence known to them unless his ire rose. That little Meg had a habit of challenging the newer ballerinas to delve into the darkness of the auditorium, something he found absolutely loathsome. But he had become accustomed to the games she played. At least it kept them on their toes there, if not on the stage.

A score of feet away and he let his gaze travel over the wealth of curls, over her profile and the way she stood, barely shaking, to his keen eye. Her fear wrapped around her like a shroud and for a moment, just a lone moment, he wanted to take her within his arms, to proclaim that she wouldn't be harmed. The thought was dashed away swiftly with an inward shake of his head. It was true, though. He had no reason to harm her, even if she did distract him from his score.

Five feet away and closing, he was within reaching range. Every muscle tensed and coiled to spring swiftly back should she move in his direction. Observantly he watched her shoulders, hips, the parts of her body that would give away hints as to how she would move. _Man or spirit? _He was a man who personified the term 'ghost', one that stood but two feet at her back, looking down at her curiously.

Oh, when little Meg heard of this ... Little Meg, who loved dancing, and wine, which she was forbidden to drink, and the attentions of a handsome man. Meg and her superstitions and gossip, who would flutter about and chant on and on that Christine had seen the 'ghost'! She had the mind to laugh at the thought, in the tense pressure of her fear, and at herself and at the faces she could now envision as the little ballerinas petted and pawed for answers to simple questions of his appearance, his voice, anything for a good topic in the lounge. It was then that a ripple that felt like fire ran along her skin and into her heart, into her gut, where it felt as she'd been kicked by that gaze she was aware of.

Still she did not move, too held in place by the overpowering presence of this … _something _that occupied the stage with her. It was necessary to breathe, she reminded herself, even when in fear of what lurked in the comfort of darkness. Comfortable because of its consuming power. In the dark, a person could be … whatever they desired, invisible, secretive, seductive, even beautiful. One could be beautiful without the comparison of others to guide the decision. Unnerved and plastered to the spot she dared not inch from, Christine waited, listened, and breathed.

_Move,_ he willed silently, with the slow narrowing of muted gold. _Move. Speak. Do something. Do not just stand there. _The softness of her hair beckoned, but he dared not to lift his hand and touch. No … touching was something he could not bring himself to do. Any breathing thing that he touched was eventually destroyed, save for that little fur ball princess down within the depths of his lair. Surely, if he did not have the Siamese to speak to, or the Madame now and again, he would have been driven mad(der?), consumed by solitude.

She waited, listened…breathed. And he was doing the same, though studying her as well. Why had he not left her alone already, returned to the layers upon layers of parchments that had captured his attention for the past few months? What was so special about this silent siren? The inability to figure it out right away irritated him and his jaw set firmly. He hated being bested by such simple things, puzzles. And women were often the most confusing puzzles that he came across; once he believed he had them figured out, they turned his research topsy turvy. Placing one foot behind the other, he stepped away from her so quickly, that the gentle caress of air could be felt by those fine, risen hairs.

Christine longed to be home again, in the warmth of Mama Valerius' love and the security of her bed and board. She was far from there now, she knew, silently testing the waters of a murky underworld that only revealed itself in the depths of silence within the walls of the Opera House. It was strange how such a glorious and scampering world by day could be so riddled with mystery and intrigue by night. A sense of sorrow had befallen her by the time this thought wagered itself in her brain, and sympathy for this silent and seemingly invisible creature that lurked somewhere between reality and imagination, death and life.

It wasn't until the faintest stir of a breeze on her neck that Christine moved, her head by habit quickly canting to the side. She cursed inwardly for doing so. She turned slightly to glance into a darkness that had not seemed to change since her time spent within its proximity. At last she conjured words, softly speaking in a voice that sounded foreign to her ears. She continued her earlier statement; "Man or spirit, I know you are here."

The faintest shifting of her hips caused him to straighten, and with the fluidity of oil he stepped to the side, retaining his position behind her, not wishing to take the chance that her eyes might have adapted to the darkness. The languid drape of cloak parted, fingers lifted to take the edge of fedora lower, dropping its curved rim, tipping it off to the right as his chin also descended. He deepened that shadow between hat and cape's collar, obfuscating the mask that would have shone like a glaring light. With the slightest shift, his arm lowered, delving back into natural and unnatural darkness. Not once had his eyes left her. She was impassively settled, yet still, there was that smidgen of curiosity.

"Perceptive," came his lyrical response, his voice melodic and hushed in a brushed kiss along her ear. _Fool!_ He inwardly cursed himself, grimacing as he drew into an encompassing silence. Thought had taken to voice, slipping that tightly held guard.

Drawing out at last the first response, she was none the less taken aback by the clarity and the sensational feel of the word as it rolled from the unseen tongue and met, with gentle drifting, her straining ear. Again, that rushing of a fire upon her skin as _he _spoke at last, a thrill that both intrigued and disarmed her. She made no move to find the source of this single word that had drifted from this singular soul but instead stood still, amused by its sarcasm. Indeed, as he spoke, a sigh parted lips that had previously pursed to retain needed moisture. She pondered on how to respond, but really, what could one say to a ghost of a man if both, or neither, was what this creature proved to be? And then the answer seemed so blatantly clear, though a feeling crept over her that spoke of its foolishness, its almost selfish bequest.

"Will you not show yourself?" If he had taken so deftly to hiding in shadow, could she, a simple chorus girl, really believe herself to hold the power to coax him from it? _Surely not, little Christine._ _You are a chorus girl, not an angel of heaven or even La Carlotta, the Prima Donna of Paris. _Her eyes went here and there, to and fro, for the signs she knew she'd never see.

If only she knew that it had taken much, much more for others to even get him to speak. He was often a silent presence, at least until his ire was provoked. Then that enchanting rumble of tenor would almost seem to fill the whole of the great opera house with its strength. More questions, ones he knew he shouldn't answer. He knew that he should simply go back to his work, leaving her to wonder at his presence.

He took another step back, but then found himself rooted, unwilling to go any further. The sweet, sensual caress of words came again; a heavenly voice from the body of a demon. "I cannot be seen, child." Could not, or would not? Was he indeed invisible? Could she be looking right at him and not knowing it? She could turn, taking in the whole of the stage, and yet nothing would come within her line of sight. He would move with her, as if drawn upon the same line of travel.

Christine took this in without fail, silent for a moment as she thought on this. Really, she was somewhat pleased by this answer and thought no more of speaking to a ghost. Something in his voice, the caress of the words that seemed to permeate to her very heart, raised in her an intrigue unfamiliar to her.

"Are you ghost as they say, monsieur? Or something else .." The latter end of her statement fell quickly from the gentle tone of her sweet voice, fascinated by his state of being. She hadn't turned from her position but had actually grown quite at ease with this stranger she could not see. And ah, the madness! To have a conversation with Night himself, enveloped in his abundant arms and blinded by the rich lack of color. The shift stirred her abundant cocoa curls, tickling at the nape of her neck lightly as she sighed.

He considered how he should answer this question of hers, and stated the first thing that came to his mind. "What else would I be," he questioned, the voice thrown so it would be directly before her, as if she were speaking with someone there instead of the person that was not too far behind her. He folded his arms over his waist, the fingers of one hand curled along the jut of elbow while the other slowly rapped against his hip, almost in an impatient manner. He was still considering this quizzical situation and his own uncharacteristic actions. If one pressed aside her comely beauty, the child was unremarkable. But something drew him. Predator and prey? Or moth to a flame, he wondered?

The dear child could have questioned the Fates. A corner of her pink mouth upturned, and she turned somewhat, the rustle of her gauze tutu another sound that accompanied this coaxed encounter. A chill ran down her spine, a breath expelled at the assault of his words. She knew not what to say, what to presume him to be. That is, until the most absurd of thoughts actually seemed rational in the moment.

"An angel, even?" _Or devil. _One that haunted the bowels of the Opera House, preyed, as Joseph said, on the innocence of the unimpressive chorus girls, cloaking himself in dark as deep as night. Exhaustion had suddenly plagued her. Drawn down by the height of fear she had remembered herself at last, the state with which she had left a sort of reality and thus entered a world of mystery conjured on the very stage of the Opera.

"An angel," he repeated, with the soft lulling tone, now directed off to her right. It wasn't thoughtful, or final, or even questioning. It was simply a mirroring of her words. _Mm, yes. Lucifer was an angel before his fall, was he not?_ he thought dryly. This time he didn't move as she turned, secure in the fact that she couldn't see him. He did create just a bit more distance, delving deeper within the shadows that held him possessively and even passionately.

He saw her profile, and her back, though now he was curious as to how she appeared facing him. He was taking a grand chance, though he had the idea that it would be passed off as another story of the opera's ghost. That filthy lout had already seen him once, crossing a beam only to disappear into 'thin air.' And though he had never seen the ghost without his mask, the man spoke as if he did, mostly to the young women to frighten them. Finally, at length, he spoke again, "perhaps." It was a simple phrase, followed by another to entice more from her. "What do you think me to be?"

She could not, indeed, see him, her eyes untrained in the dark still, and even if she had tried to seek him out by physical touch, she never would have found him, this she knew for sure. However, that did not mean to say that she would ignore this opportunity. Intrigued and still somewhat frightened by this mysterious creature, she bemused aloud of his nature.

"A man and a mystery, I suppose. I can not judge what I can not see or touch, monsieur." Only what she could hear, and of that melodic and still somehow melancholy voice she was entranced and still curious about his history. "And so you are, to me, an angel fallen. Living not in this world or the next, haunting the imaginations of superstitious chorus girls and troubling, I presume, hard working men like Monsiuer Reyer."

Christine was not as foolish and simpering as first presumed, and turning in full circle, she chewed nervously on her lip as the chilling stillness overwhelmed and overpowered her senses as she awaited his response. Of course, she could have been, and probably was, wrong, she the superstitious chorus girl, previously reprimanded for her daydreaming.

Faintly his head tipped to the side as he listened, a bit of amusement twitching along the line of his lips, smooth and marred alike. Such imagination these girls tended to have, interesting within their own rights. With all of the stories that little Meg told, he began to believe that she should be writing horror novels, not prancing around the stage as some piece of scenery.. "There are many types of angels," he concluded, with a sense of shrugging in his voice, a gesture that his shoulders didn't make.

Facing her now, he let his night honed eyes pass along her features and the rest of her form. He did not let his eyes linger for too long; though sarcastic and snide at times, he was always an immaculate gentleman. From beneath the brim of his hat, he allowed his gaze to settle upon her face again. No further words followed those that had seemed to pass behind her.

"And what sort of angel are you?" Her question came immediately, curiosity catching the best of her as she jumped to respond. She imagined him some great and thundering ghost of a thing, or man if need be. She felt the creeping cold of his figurative breath, the piercing gaze that settled on her skin like the heat of a fire sought too close for comfort, and still she remained in pliant response to his words.

His voice alone seemed to stun and yet transfix her, tiny feet sluggish to move but not by exhaustion or faux will. She was glued to the spot with each lilting tone of his voice, the overpowering sense of his presence. Presuming he dwelled in the Opera House, why not an angel of music? The thought seemed rational enough, though it never escaped into words.


	4. Chapter 04

Angel of Death? No, he had left that life behind when he escaped Persia and the clutches of the Khanum. Angel of Darkness would have been fitting with the way he seemed to be part of it. But it was just too cliché, and he couldn't have that, now could he? Angels tended to reflect beauty, rage, and mercy. His rage was a fearsome thing, and yet he felt it not as he looked upon this wisp of a girl. Without his rage, there was no need for mercy. The only thing he had that was beautiful was his voice, his ... "Music," it slipped free. Repeated to echo, to her surprise, her very thoughts. "Angel of Music." From behind and to her side that voice seemed to float, and yet he remained stationary. He found himself studying her closely, almost dissecting her right then and there with that intense, and intent, gaze.

Strange that thoughts could so easily collide and though she showed no outward sign of amusement, a kick of laughter rose to bubble forth before being repressed all together. An Angel of Music, and she'd never heard him sing. She knew nothing of him really other than his fondness for frightening the likes of her, a mere chorus girl, and that he wished to remain invisible and secure in the darkness. Christine differed widely. She strove for beauty and attention with all of her soul, and the riches of earth she had so long been denied. She strove for a song to sing to the heavens, a voice and dance that could enrapture all that looked and listened upon her.

How happy she'd be then – to be as radiant as those bright angels in heaven. She nodded, though unaware he could see it, reaffirming this new title for the mysterious stranger who seemed to be everywhere at once, tickling one ear with a word, the other ear with the next. He was a lover of trickery and confusion. "The Angel of Music and never before have I heard him sing."

Her laughter had caused a brow to raise. He was curious as to her laughter until her comment spilled forth and he nodded ever so slowly. No, she hadn't heard him sing, had she? Probably hadn't even heard him play before. It was then that he fully saw the amusement factor, but no lift came to his lips…at least not in humor. Instead, it was more of a sly canting that tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Would you like to hear me sing, Christine?" Her name was spoken so softly, that if she hadn't been focusing solely upon that drifting voice she might have lost it completely. He remembered her name now, how could he not? Madame Giry yelled it out almost every rehearsal day.

The bemused chuckles ceased slowly, her cheeks flushed with color at the embarrassment of such amusement from a figure she held now with such regard. A respect, if you will. She had half a mind to curtsy for the deed had it not been for the fact that she couldn't see him. Brows lifted with his question, and brightened eyes lifted heavenward as if to find her Angel of Music settled above. "Very much, Angel." A smile in the dark and another dip of her head, her halo of deep brown curls dusting over her shoulders as she nodded her insistence.

_What should he sing_, he wondered. Perhaps something nearly blasphemous, such as the Dies Ires, about one who denounced God long ago for such a simple, almost childish reason. Though, if one gave light to it, they wouldn't see it as such. "To give and gain," he began closely, as if he was whispering directly into her ear, and there the voice remained with his next words. "Shall I gain a song if one is given?" The question was accompanied by a faint raise of a brow, even if she couldn't see it. Finally he glanced away from her, drawing his attention to the stage and the seats beyond, even the hallway gathered a brief look. The turn of his head brought his eyes to her again, that study taken up as if it hadn't been ended to begin with.

Christine, her gaze still lifted to that dark heaven of beams and rigging, thought on this, grimacing at the thought of singing. She responded carefully, somewhat ashamed, "I shall try." And really she would, though she felt her voice an unworthy gift to lay at his feet. For the time being she kneeled, almost as if in prayer, on her bended legs and knees, her hands folded into the piles of her gauze tutu. She awaited his song, anticipating the passion with which he promised to bring, the passion that dripped from every word that felt as if it were spoken against her very ear. She could have sworn his breath might have brushed along her neck, stirring her palm to run softly against the pallid skin there.

Did she truly believe him to be an angel? By the way she lowered in a semblance of prayer, it seemed that way. Her hands weren't lifted, though, not pressed before her with head bowed. He didn't know if he should be grateful or disappointed. "You will _do_." Though he spoke gently, there was an undeniable sense of demand behind it. He didn't want her to try to sing, he wanted her to sing. Period. If she was going to be on the chorus line, he had to know her voice. Usually he was able to pick out one voice from another. Hers had been either so soft or so unremarkable that he had overlooked it.

Instead of singing something in the language of France, the words that eased off  
of his tongue were an equally fluent, spiced Romanian. The old Gypsy tune was one he had learned some time ago, almost in another life time, it seemed, a lullaby that wept of practiced perfection. Though he hadn't made it a habit of singing before others, there was no less passion within the words. If anything, there was more now that he had an audience,

With her bright eyes lifted to the high ceiling, her palms folded in her gauze lap, she held onto every word of his song, every perfectly executed note, as he lulled her into a deeper thrall than before. Eyes drifted closed, as if in a trance, and what was conscience to her was not the dark or the cold of the theater but the ecstasy and the passion in his voice. He sang as one whose soul had truly suffered in life, one whose release was expressed through song. _Oh, sing on, strange Angel of Music_, those eyes seemed to beckon, the delicate frame of her jaw slackening as every beautiful lilt of his voice cascaded over her, through her, _around her_. She was enchanted by the idea of dying, even, at the center of such passion.

He had thought to end the song mid way, but when he noticed the look within her eyes, he couldn't deny her unspoken desire. Closing his eyes, his chin rose as he sent the song to its heights, drawing along the lingering notes in his lyrical tenor, deepening to bass at times, but never wavering too far from his natural range. It was only the two of them upon the stage, but with the closing of his eyes, it became them, alone, in the world. At that time he didn't care who else might have heard the voice that echoed within the stillness and emptiness of the auditorium. But, as with all things, the song came to an end. Just as it began, it flowed steadily to a softer tone, slower, until silence again reigned, leaving the last notes to linger in the air, and release their warm wrap from her senses.

She lifted to her feet once more, attracted and fascinated as the song whirled to a beautiful end. Oblivious to the tears that had welled in her eyes, she continued gazing into the darkened abyss above as that voice sounded in her head still, and in her heart, her _soul. _Every note had implanted itself into her marrow, every word into her veins. She was pumping blood of inspired heat, and now that it was her turn to sing. _Oh God, the horror!_ Who was she, the unremarkable and uncoordinated chorus girl, to be singing to the Voice?

Teeth set to chewing habitually at her lower lip before she inquired softly, "What would you have me sing? I fear that it would fall short of your glory." It wasn't that Christine's voice lacked real potential. Indeed, she sang so timidly to conceal from others and herself that a voice was really what she had. All of the other girls sounded like rusty hinges compared to her own sweet, melodic voice.

"_I_ will decide on whether or not you fly or fall," he was quick to respond, that soft tone never lifting higher than a whisper. No force within it, it still held that comforting quality, though that could change in the blink of an eye. What would he have her sing? He racked his thoughts, going through dozens and dozens of songs in a short span of time. Then he allowed his gaze to draw over the outfit she wore, and recalled the rehearsal she had a few hours ago. "The aria from _Hannibal," _he decided. It was La Carlotta's part. But she wasn't here. Her sweet Ubaldo had taken her home where she could rest in the lush comforts of her house. He finally moved from his position, rounding slowly toward her side and to her back as he had done before. He wanted to be close, but did not want to take the chance of her seeing him should he walk at her directly. "You know of it, do you not?"

She nodded slightly, her gaze shifting from the ceiling to the general direction with which the audience might have rested. "Yes, I do." The solo most certainly belonged to Carlotta, who sang it more oft than most with much more gusto than was required. A dying cow, little Meg had commented, before Giry tapped the pair on their bottoms and sent them on their way. But could she sing it? It was true that every chorus girl was required some training and vocal expertise, though Christine's training was somewhat advanced by the skill of her father's instruction.

Straightening somewhat and shuffling momentarily, Christine slowly drifted into the song, her gentle and somewhat childish soprano voice barely making it past the edge of the orchestra pit. Her vibrato was all but non-existent, and more atrocious was her lack of depth or feeling. She sang without knowledge of the true meaning in her words, and though she sailed over every note with a steady ease, a timid quality left something to be desired in her voice.

Once again standing behind her, he unconsciously followed her glance toward the 'audience' then slid it back to her when she agreed to knowing the song. He nodded slowly, then prepared himself for the worst. He had heard the other girls, and often wanted to drop a beam near them just to shut them up. But they needed the practice. What he wasn't prepared for was the shock that the woman _did_ have a voice. Melodious with a fine, crystal clarity. Soft, and unsure, but that could be fixed. What caught him the most was her mechanical way of singing, as if the song was a punishment he was taking her through. It pained him to listen, but he just couldn't tell her to stop right away.

Finding his voice, he interrupted the song during the third verse. "Stop. You are singing from your throat. Sing from your abdomen." He lifted a hand, tempted to bring his arm around her to press against her diaphragm, but he gestured over his own instead, though she couldn't see it. "Imagine, if you will, a hand pressing along your diaphragm, pushing the words free that you are holding captive. You must be heard, Christine. Not drowned out in the folly of screeches the others would call a song. Try again. Louder. _Stronger_. I want the angels to weep with joy at being able to hear your voice within the heavens."

As he instructed, she stopped, flustered and embarrassed, though she thought her reddened cheeks would be hidden by the darkness. His instruction lent to her the advice to press her own palm flat against her diaphragm, applying pressure. She nodded with each of the Voice's instructions. Taking in a breath, she began again, pressing her palm against her taffeted abdomen as she sang each easy note with a great deal more quality and volume. "_Think of me. Think of me fondly when we've said goodbye ..._" On she went, that hand still pressed to her muscle as she sang, her voice lifting steadily from chest to head and awaiting his further instructions.

_Lacking_. It was still lacking. And he grimaced faintly. This was torture, to hear such a pure voice devoid of equally pure emotion. She took instruction well though, he noticed. No argument, no excuses. Perhaps he could, through her, bring the chorus line to something close to perfection. If they heard her voice they may be determined to meet it, or try to exceed. "Stop," he spoke again, then thought over how he was going to further instruct her. "What is a blanket if its warmth cannot be felt? Your voice.." he trailed off for a moment as he settled his arms across his stomach in a loose hold. "It lacks, child. It lacks the feeling it is supposed to have. Do you not understand the words of longing? Of wanting? Surely you must. There must be something within this world that you desire. Something you can think of in sadness, yet find a smile upon your lips."

She stopped as told, listening further for his advice though the next bit came as somewhat of a shock to her. Unsure, she said nothing, instead thinking on his question with equanimity. What did she want? What was her desire? What stirred a smile to her face in the sad times? Her father, being loved, being needed. All of the foolish thing a girl her age dreamt of, grew to hate, and thus died resenting and still privately longing for. Was that a life, really? Was that living if all one could ever anticipate were the joys of the world around them, and not the people in it? Still, she said nothing, unsure really of what to say as she thought on the words she was singing.

There was no more to be said from him at the time. He had a feeling she was giving consideration to the words that were floating upon the air. _Listen to them_, he bade silently, his head faintly tilting in a rather bestial like gesture. _Do not hear. Listen. _His fingers started that slow tapping against his elbow again. Still, not with impatience, but with the rhythm of the song she was singing. He stepped closer, getting rid of the distance that lay between them like an intangible wall. He could hear her voice more clearly now, not only because he was close to her, but she had taken his words into mind and action. Now if she could only keep that strength in her voice instead of letting it fade during practice.

Again, she would try. Again and again until she mastered this art as perfectly as he had, which she knew was impossible to dream, but still she reached. She began again, her eyes easing closed as she climbed over note after note, singing into the great auditorium, memories of a lover lost.

"_... There will never be a day when I won't think of you!_" The crystal clear quality lifted above the pit, past the lavish velvet boxes, to the chandelier itself! Lithe arms even dared lift to absorb the quality of the sound, the depth of her heart that seeped now into words that took flight on the wings he had sculpted on the darkened stage.

At first he had believed she was not going to be able to place herself into the music, but again she took him by surprise. His eyes lifted from the seats to draw over to her again as she continued the song, and he almost found himself smiling. The final scale and note struck, he nodded slowly, the gesture no softer than a feather's touch. "Better. I presume, you felt what I spoke of I child. The longing?" Ceasing the silent tapping he had given to his elbow he curled his fingers along the jut of cloth and bone as he walked from her back left toward her right. Still a few feet behind her, he turned his head enough so that he could look upon her youthful profile, flushed by the power of the song.

As her song ended, Christine's expression had slipped from the solemn concentration of the song to that of a beguiled demeanor. She had never known she could sing that way, that her heart could escape in such simple words. A soft smile drew her from the bemused reverie, her chin lifted as she drew in a long breath. "I did. I really did ... " Oh, if she could see him now, if he could see her – which she knew not that he could – the smile and the radiance that seeped from within, as if a great release had come upon her. Gratefully, she bowed her head respectively to the dark and to the Angel of Music that had given her the wings to fly as she so desired. "Thank you."

Her thanks gained a slight dip of his chin, though she could not see it, even if she had looked in his direction. "A question remains," he started, leaving a pregnant pause after the toss of his voice settled near her right ear. "Can you do the same before an audience? One that would fill this auditorium." One hand slipped from the embrace of the cloak and motioned to the seats that lay before them. Settling his leather shod palm against his elbow again he glanced to the seating, then back to this once trembling bird. Now she seemed so soothed, so calm, speaking with a 'ghost' or an 'angel.' Perhaps that's what staved off her fear.

It was much more pleasant to imagine something glorious with wings and a golden aura than something translucent and rotting.


	5. Chapter 05

Ask not how she was reassured by his presence so that she could, or by what manner his tutelage had somehow instilled in her the confidence to sore above all the rest. Only rest at ease that this 'trembling little bird' had found at last, her voice. Her spirit, even. Her brows knit together as she tried to imagine the grand auditorium filled to the brim with patrons from all over, its lavish velvet and gold accents, the carved figures of nymphs and devils, the magnificent chandelier, all aglow with_ her_ voice.

It was her own figure she imagined there center stage, magnificent gown and glistening jewels reflecting upon the wood floor of the stage. She could, if she dreamed just right, even catch a glimpse of the roses that fell at her feet, hear the wild applause of the audience, and whereas once Christine was too timid to dream such a thing, too insecure, now the taste of this glory lingered in her spirit. "I could do this now, with your instruction, Angel." Where his voice had lingered to her right, she canted her head in the same direction, straining for more of this strange potion he worked within her.

_With my instruction..._ His lips pressed thin. She had a beautiful voice, there was no doubt about it. But what use would it create? Carlotta, ah yes. Her. She could finally be gotten rid of, a more worthy diva could take her place. One that wouldn't become a pompous peacock like that woman. Perhaps he was judging too quickly. Anyone could become enthralled by power and money. This timid thing now could become like Carlotta, if not worse. Then perhaps she might lose that gift. No...no. He'd have to harness that vanity, rein it in before it could become too strong. "I will teach you then," he finally stated after a few moments of silence. "I have expectations for you, Christine. Though, should you dare become like La Carlotta, you will never hear my voice again. Ever. You must focus on your performances."

_Like Carlotta, _he had said. Christine could never imagine herself as such a woman, her nature was much too simple, too trusting and oft too naive to treat others with the ice cold contempt that the Diva had. She thought on this for a long while, of Carlotta's success and the scorn from those who had not been 'charmed' by her voice and the regard that they held her in. She thought of poor, bloated Piangi, his manner like a spaniel; the more she kicked him, the more he buffeted her blows like an adoring dog.

She remembered the name Carlotta had coined for her, the wretched _toad_, and the faces of her entourage lined up in laughter as they moved by in a bustle of too heavy perfume and the stench of conglomerated stage paint. And now, he had promised to teach her. With those thoughts of Carlotta pressed aside, she sought now only to keep his divine knowledge close to her, learning from him all she could. "I am humble beneath your guidance**."**

"Humble you shall remain, though do not shun yourself from the cheers of the crowd. You will deserve all the applause that they give you." Where should he teach her, though? At night the building was empty. Her dressing room crossed his mind. He had a way to get to it…get to all of them. No one would question hearing her sing, but what if they heard him? At least here he could tell if someone was coming down the hallways. Perhaps both?

"Tomorrow, when all have gone, you will return here." There was no question, and it was definitely not a request. He was one who was used to demanding and seeing that his wishes became active with little to no arguments. "We will do more than practice the aria of _Hannibal._ I will have you practice all of Elissa's part." Very high expectations he had of her, no doubt. Though he would see to it that she was perfect.

Again the diligent pupil, she nodded her obedience. Excitement raced through her veins at the opportunity to be under the lessons of such an apt teacher. The only other opportunity that she had ever had offered to her before had been by her father. Could the Voice really be the angel her father promised to send? It was a ridiculous notion that was simply an affect of her childish heart. However, before long, she was slowly convinced of his origin.

Her gaze drifted once more out into the auditorium, again imagining the thundering crowd he had promised to her. In the dark, her eyes still strained to search for him though she made no move to turn and seek him out. A strange angel indeed to wish to remain in shadow, but whatever gift he bestowed upon her she would take with equal humility. "Am I to know your name so that I may call on you?"

Dragging his eyes back to her, his lips pressed thin with that particular question. Surely he couldn't give her his name, no. It would be too plain for this angel she claimed him to be. He regarded her with the same silence that he had before, a silence wrapped as comfortably around him as the darkness he stood within. "Angel of Music, or simply Angel would be suitable, child." Besides, he found a little humor in it, being called something that was supposed to be of divine beauty.

Lifting his chin he glanced over his shoulder, his eyes focused upon the hallway. For a moment it sounded as if another was coming, and he began backing away from her in case the interloper might decide to turn on the lights. But when the distant steps turned elsewhere, he paused in his own departure. "It grows late," he reminded her gently. If he didn't get rid of her now he'd never make any progress upon his libretto

She too had picked up on the footsteps and turned to face the hallway, bracing herself for another soul to enter the stage. However, they dissipated swiftly and she turned then to regard again the heavy darkness as he spoke. At his mention of the hour, Christine shuffled uncomfortably and remembered herself at last, as if the past time spent with her Angel had been but a dream.

She was half tempted to pinch herself, but instead nodded slowly and bowed her head. The thick strip of cream satin that held from her visage those unkept and lovely curls brushed along her neck softly as she turned to go, her voice quiet as she whispered into the dark, "Goodnight, sweet angel." Her lips drew into a softened smile then, the color of her cheeks restored as the fear vanished and all that remained was a comfortable sense of guidance.

The faint 'goodnight' glided in a brush of words along the shell of her ear, lingering then fading away as if it had truly been a dream. Quietly he watched her turn, then stepping back, he made his way to the ladder that would lead him to the rafters. He paused mid-way, though, watching her still until she was no longer within his line of sight. Shaking his head faintly he turned to the ladder then made his way up swiftly, taking his place against the beam he had left earlier.

Gathering the parchments he looked upon it, but to his irritation, found that he couldn't get that young woman's voice out of his head. For a moment he had the thought that he wouldn't return tomorrow, but the more stubborn side of him made him realize that he would. Returning the parchments to his portfolio, he waited until the hour was over before descending to his own personal hell

Christine made her way through the hall, unafraid at last of this 'ghost that had haunted the Opera for as long as she'd been there. Reaching her dressing room, she set about lighting the various candles that littered her oak wardrobe. She tugged down the bow that fastened her hair back from her cheeks and neck, laying it flat upon the surface as she sat before the three reflective mirrors. Unlacing her shoes proved to be much easier than lacing them, when oft she needed the assistance of Meg or another of the chorus line rats. Her cream dance tights went next and lithe limbs of the purest porcelain were resigned to wool leggings that would serve to add warmth on the Paris streets. Not that she would walk, heavens no. A taxi would be summoned, taking her across town to Mama Valerius' care. As she went about the common task of robing herself in her burgundy gown and cape, the crystal quality of her voice began again with a song that carried beyond the walls of her dressing room.

He hadn't far to go before he came to the first of many trapdoors. Glancing over his shoulder and studying the area, he pressed against the wall, dislodging a portion of it before stepping within and closing it behind him. Just as he could easily see in the dark upon the stage, the labyrinthine passages were taken without so much as a slowing of his step. It wasn't until he had to cross the line of dressing rooms that he slowed his swift pace. Pausing between rooms, he lifted his gaze up the stairs that lead to the only lit cubicle. Instead of ascending, he remained there, listening quietly to her singing. Already she was showing promise. This pleased him.

Shifting his portfolio beneath his arm he expelled a slow breath then continued past, heading down into the catacombs. Five stories in total he descended, then crossed a frigid lake, black and misting, smelling only faintly of oil. Within his lair he finally found the seclusion he wanted, the concentration. Tomorrow was another day, another lesson. And he'd be there early for rehearsals so she could be watched.

Oh, and he would watch the others too, of course.

* * *

The next day proved to be filled with more work for the company than the previous one. However, Christine's almost rambunctious demeanor and youthful charm had her in a cheerful state, smiles and flushed cheeks and the laughter that bubbled from her drew stares from even little Meg, whose demeanor she all but mirrored. During the _Hannibal _rehearsal, after the girls had been fitted and assigned their individual period costumes of slave girls in the fictional court, they'd been divided into three groups: one would work with Monsieur Reyer at the piano for the last remaining hour of rehearsal, the other with Madame Giry on the movement of their willowy figures and awkward jumps, and the last would return to the prop department to begin work with shackles upon their delicate wrists. Christine was with Reyer, and fortunately Meg as well, warming up with the scales on stage when something strange happened. Christine's voice, whereas it once so shyly lingered below their own 'squeaking hinge vocal chords, bounded and leapt for the notes it once struggled so to reach.

With time and practice one could have control over more mortal things, such as eating and sleeping habits. The need for both had become almost nil, so it was no surprise for him, nor his feline companion when he stayed up for the entirety of the evening and morning as well, filling the emptiness of his lair with sounds of his voice or the cry of the organ. Only a bit of food met his stomach when he ventured out into the coming dawn, only to take shelter away from the prying eyes and curious glances. People often find it odd when another goes out of his way to remain inconspicuous.

Though the sun hadn't gone completely down yet, he made his way up to the surface world, and to the box he had often 'haunted.' Only the lights around the stage were on, much to his approval. He didn't expect anything more considering he bade the Madame to keep it that way. There had been another note left for her, but this one was a lot lighter than the one from last evening. The fluid script held a simple message, to ensure that Christine remained when the house closed. Had to be a curious thing, indeed, for the 'ghost' never found interest in the chorus girls beyond speaking ill of their performances.

The bustle of the Opera and its members had faded towards the days ending. The stage hands had finished dismantling the set pieces from _Le Roi de Lahore, _painting over its previous significance of a decade ago. It was time now to show master strokes of grand palaces and tropical settings.

Before those towering flats, Christine and her cohorts sang out the opening song of the production, the inconspicuous chorus girl lifting her voice above the others own flat, unremarkable lines. Everything in her bright face now expressed much more than before, her eyes glimmering behind the footlights as Reyer's piano instruction, Meg's strained voice, and the commands of Giry from stage left drifted into a fuzzy blur of events. It was then she felt the first sensation of his gaze, sensed his presence and furthered her striving into the song for her Angel of Music.

It couldn't be decided who was more surprised; Reyer hadn't expected the girl to begin singing as she did, and nearly stumbled upon the accompaniment. Giry, though she was surprised, didn't let it flicker across her eyes. The chorus girls, though... not only were they surprised, they were probably irritated at the young woman as well. That meant they had to practice more and strive to obtain the goal of purer singing.

A secret entrance had him within the curtained booth, and caressing along the side, the curtain was gently pulled back, allowing him to see down toward the stage where the others were. He studied her, a quiet pride swelling within his breast at the shocked looks from the others. Yes, beneath his tutoring she'd soar. She would be his voice, his muse. Adjusting his angle so that he wouldn't have to hold the curtain open, he continued to observe her and the others, judging where they needed more practice.

The 'rats all looked on from their dancing, losing step and thus suffering the wrath of their instructor as they strained to see the obvious transformation of the girl. Surely that wasn't Christine Daae, they told themselves, the child who but a day before sat alone and apart during rehearsal, pondering on some depthless grief paid from the death of her father? Not little Daae, the unimpressive graduate of the Conservatoire who'd only been admitted into the Opera because of Mme. Valerius' amiable standing with the managers! But indeed it was the curly crowned line girl that sang her heart out for the heavens, catching the ear of even La Carlotta who ventured out onto the stage at the close of the song, flanked by her usual entourage, to investigate this new voice.

She'd lingered offstage, too consumed in her own words to notice the voice until its clarity had caught her between dialogues. Brushing away the wig mistress – a spinster of fifty who tried in vain to keep the Diva still as she fitted her for the great crown she'd wear in the upcoming production – Carlotta's immediate attention was set upon Christine, who now stood silent and not in the least beguiled by her increasingly skilled voice. _"_Little Toad,_" _was her only reaction, a growl that even sent plump little Piangi to shivering.

It was a growl that caused his eyes to slowly narrow. That woman … that _detestable _woman. She would get hers one of these days. He would have done so sooner, but truly ... what business was it of the specter's if people didn't like each other in this business? If he did something about it each time, then there would be some thoroughly frightened people in the House. She brought people to see his operas, kept this place running. That was perhaps the only reason he stilled his hand. But oh, he couldn't help playing with her now and again; making certain costumes disappear, along with her fancy wigs and makeup. Lacing his fingers together he rested back within the cushioned seat, his gaze settled upon Christine once more, to see how she would take this insult. Suck it up and lower her head demurely, or meet the gaze of the woman head on?

Christine's expression was one of feigned oblivion. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she watched as Carlotta again strutted from the stage in the manner only the Prima Donna could; like an overly assured, arrogant, even pompous star that had seen her days of standing ovations and untrained ears and artistically ignorant patrons. However, this all remained in Christine's mind, for she'd emerged from her grief much too late to make any real relationships. She had few friends to laugh and share with, thus her opinion of Carlotta was left to a silence she shared with even the stage hands, who rolled their eyes at that horrible specimen of a woman.

Christine had been completely alone for so long, her only encouragement wrought from Mama Valerius, who had taken care of her since her father's death. Alone, until now. She knew he was watching; she felt the stir of his words at her ear, encouraging and urging her to sing on as she had. And this Phantom who awed, terribly, everyone else, strangely, did not terrify her. He was blamed for all sorts of odd occurrences, she had begun to notice. Little Cecile Jammes shook in her place whenever her shoes would go missing, and of course, they'd all blame the 'ghost instead of a dancer simply playing a practical joke. Presently though, Christine would ignore the insults of her superior, bowing her head slightly.

He had half a mind to collect plenty of toads from the Rue just to place them in the woman's dressing room. The thought was enough to bring finely pressed lips to a slow, almost devious curl at the corners. It would be a task, but well worth it just to hear that woman scream. Yes, in fact, he would do it. After Christine's lessons, though. Seeing the way Carlotta treated the young woman only made him want to ensure that she became the new prima donna. How nice it would be to oust that one from her lofty position and send her bawling back to her native land. Good riddance to bad rubbish.

Lowering his eyes to his side, he regarded the portfolio that he had brought with him, his eyes brushing along the smooth leather, as if he could read the notes that lay below. He could work upon it, but he knew that his focus would be off, partly settled upon the Swedish woman below. The soft, almost surprised squeal of a few girls brought his attention back to the stage, just in time to see the grinning visage of the Chief slip behind a curtain so he could fix one of the backdrops.


	6. Chapter 06

Christine's gaze had lifted as well to find Buquet slinking about, her mind taken back quickly to the events of the night before. _'... just waiting to gobble you up.' _She almost smiled at the thought of his fantastic stories. She remembered another time, whilst her time in the Opera was still at its fresh immaturity, when Buquet had found his way into the dancer's lounge to tell the first story Christine had ever heard of the ghost. _'_

_He only has three or four long, dark locks of hair that hang over his forehead and behind his ears', _Joseph had said, his eyes wide and that toothy grin accentuated by the candle he held beneath his chin as if to create some dramatic effect. He spoke of the ghost's ugly yellow skin, its lack of a nose, the horrible face of death that he had claimed to encounter. Christine wasn't so sure of this description now after her time spent with the heavenly Voice, and her imagination ran rampant with the origin and the beauty of her Angel. She had to ask herself, though. Was this Phantom often whispered about one and the same as her Angel? Perhaps he was heard whispering among the halls and the girls, or even Buquet, made up a horrible story.

Meg was tugging her to the side then, her pink mouth pulled tight into a Cheshire smile as she questioned excitedly, "Christine, your voice! You've been hiding your light under a bushel!" The young woman smiled demurely. Her voice _was _heard beyond Carlotta's picky ears. Beneath his hand and guidance, her voice would become alluring. Her dancing though… that was something Madame Giry would have a better time with. It wasn't that he couldn't teach her. No, he just found no interest in telling people how to prance around in tights, acting like a water sprite. As amusing as it might look sometimes, it just wasn't his taste.

Looking as if he was about to have a heart attack, the current manager made his way from his office into the main section of the theater, carrying with him the letter that had been left behind for the Madame. Dabbing lightly at his brow, he tucked the kerchief into the pocket of his slacks and quietly approached the cane wielding woman. "Madame Giry. Another note," he spoke quietly, so as not to draw the attention of the over curious ballerinas.

The appearance of the manager caused the resident specter to glance away from the duo of young women and look over toward the other two much older individuals. Stamped with the usual red hardened wax in the impression of a skull, Madame's name was written in a flowing script, using the same dark red ink that he normally did. The note had a simple message;

_Ensure Miss Daae remains after hours when the others have left. _

_Sincerely,  
__O.G._

Giry turned, accepting the letter, and from the expression on Lefevre's face, knew instantly of its author. Thanking him quietly, she turned again to prompt the girls in a rather complicated sequence of spins and leaps, taking the opportunity to read over the reddened scrawl. Her gaze lifted after she folded the parchment neatly, eyes rising easily to Christine.

Madame Giry's eyes betrayed her. The child was regarded with a knowing, foreboding look as she watched her daughter and the chorus girl interact before returning to her usual demeanor; an icy cold instructor who tapped her cane in time as she barked out to the twirling girls, "Alright, that's quite enough. Now to Monsieur Reyer." The girls curtsied quickly, migrating together towards the other side of the stage as Christine and Meg ventured with their assigned group to Giry. The Madame pulled the girl aside, under the inspecting glances of the others.

He almost expected the older woman to glance up toward where he now settled, but when she watched Christine instead then pulled her aside, he gave an inward nod. It was rare for Giry to go against his wishes, though he didn't make a habit of writing requests that dealt with anything beyond the opera and its house. Rehearsals were going along well enough, and swiftly from the look of it. Though that might have been his anticipation that made the time pass quickly. He almost considered making something happen just so it would end abruptly. But no, the line needed to continue their practicing. It would not do if Christine was the only one with a wonderful voice and an adequate dance routine.

After exhaling a quiet breath, he gathered his portfolio and dragged it to his lap, determined to get at least something done while the rehearsals drew to a close. Opening up the leather, he brushed his fingers along the top parchment, an index finger running over the words that had been plaguing him for far too long; _Don Juan Triumphant. _No matter how much he tried, he just couldn't get beyond the first act and it was truly beginning to become troublesome.

The bright ingénue listened intently to Giry's demand, nodding and giving a short curtsy before returning to the group of girls gathered at the bar. Some still looked upon her, ruffled by her earlier performance at the piano, while others were curious about the message Giry had given her. Just as her blonde companion moved to question her, the instructor began that tapping of her cane to the stage, calling out the steps. With one hand Christine clutched the bar, the other extending gracefully to her side.

"Softer plié, Miss Jammes,_" _the Madame called.The girl did as instructed, and these exercises continued on for some time before the troupe was instructed to work the routine choreographed by the Prima Ballerina herself, La Sorelli. Throughout the entire rehearsal, Christine still sensed, without fear, the presence of the Voice. She even indulged in that flattering fact, and she sprinted and leapt with the same vigor that she sang with, as if to impress her new tutor. She fancied herself the votary of the Angel, and setting aside the first glimpse of her earthly feelings for the heavenly being, applied the instructions he had given her for her voice to her dance, resulting in a convincing and near perfectly timed dance.

Flipping the pages to find his stopping point, he glanced up for the fourth time, settling his gaze upon the now dancing woman. A brow subtly rose as he noticed that even that had improved within this short amount of time. It wasn't perfect, but with time it would be. Soon he found himself closing up the parchments again as well as the leather, hand settling against its surface. Maybe he would write more later, after he had practiced with the young woman. No others would he glance to. She held his full attention.

The great willows of her arms lifted towards the heavens, her rehearsal tutu flaring about her as she spun in time with the others. Where once there was the shy chorus girl who had taken every opportunity to hide in the back row, there now dwelled a blossoming young woman with the vigor in her veins of a lover, and of a child. Her eyes were aglow with the Voice's inspiration, her smile a genuine expression of her new found friend and guide into the art she so strived to please her father's memory with. She no longer feared the recklessness of losing herself in the passion of the dance and of the song, no longer lingered on the abyss of feeling. Her senses now soared with it, until rehearsal ended and the stage slowly began to empty.

There came a time when, though his eyes were on her, his mind was elsewhere. He followed each of her movements, every lively step, and every gesture she gave. Inwardly there was music placed with it, but nothing he heard was Reyer playing at the time. Shaking out of that haze he'd drawn himself into, he collected the portfolio and pressed up to a slow stand, ensuring that he didn't disturb the curtains with his movement.

Smoothing his fingers against the surface of the pillar at his side, the hidden latch was found and he opened the door that only he knew about. Not even Madame Giry, who often collected her wage and left his own salary knew of that secret entrance and elevator. Resting upon the platform within, and closing the door, the seating was lowered by way of pulled ropes, drawing him down to the first floor and beneath.

Giry led the flock of scuttling young girls towards the dressing rooms, while Meg accompanied Christine to her own with obvious excitement. Once within the privacy of the dressing room, the blonde became an instant fountain of questions. "Have you been deceiving us, Christine? Leading us to believe that you weren't really good all along? What alchemist has spun your voice into gold so suddenly?_" _She went about with these remarks as Christine slipped over her dance taffeta and tutu the crisp white lace of her robe, tying it around her shapely waist and loosening her curls from the braid they'd been fastened in.

"A voice of gold, Meg?" She laughed sitting at her wardrobe. "That would be much too heavy to carry." Meg's obvious disappointment showed in the pout that set apart her lips, and after several moments of endless pestering that offered no amount of substantial gossip for the lounge, she left her little friend to meet her mother in the carriage. Christine, however, lingered behind as instructed.

Soon he was out into the hidden corridors, making his way to the hall that would lead him to the line of dressing rooms. This time he didn't remain between them, but silently scaled the stairs as she and Meg spoke. He listened quietly, almost expecting her to give away their secret, but was quite pleased when she stilled her tongue. The floor to ceiling mirror-window allowed him to view her whole dressing room, and Christine as well as she moved about.

After Meg left, Christine almost sighed with relief. She liked Meg, really she did; she adored the company of the girl and even the little trinkets of gossip she received from her, but with the anticipation of hearing from her Angel, the need for privacy was too great. He had instructed her to go to the stage, though as of now she was sure its wooden surface was still scattered about with stage hands and the other assorted hired help of the Opera.

Muffled voices ventured from the other dressing rooms, girls still changing and giggling with each other before she heard them lock their doors and head upstairs to the lounge or to their taxis. It was quiet during the few brief moments that she strained to listen, her eyes fixated on the reflection that the three mirrors upon her dresser cast. Each granted her a different angle of that rounded, cherubim visage; the apple of her cheeks reddened with life, her great doe eyes lined by thick lashes and nestled beneath a fine brow structure and forehead. Her thick mass of curls curved along her jaw and the slender nape of her swan's neck, falling to the small of her back and across her ample breast. She inspected all of this in silence, moistening her lips and running her palm across her cheek idly.

Resting the leather folder aside, he took his place behind the mirror, only a few feet from its surface, and tilted his head to the side while skimming his gaze along her form. It wasn't in an intimate manner that he did so, but rather a simple regarding of the woman that had strangely attracted his attention. _What is it about you, little Daae? _Lifting a hand he dusted his fingertips against the one-way glass, drawing along the length of her hair where it met the small of her back.

Pressing his lips thin, he pulled his hand down, sinking it beneath the weight of the cape for it to be pushed into the pocket of his slacks. He wore his usual evening wear, rarely did he don anything else. At least here he wouldn't have to worry about her being able to see him. _Why, pray tell, have you drawn my consideration when I have overlooked many others before you? _"Are you ready for your lessons, Christine?" He spoke gently, kindly. The voice seemed no where near the large mirror, but in a hush along side of her ear, as if her angel was afraid others might hear him.

His voice did not take her by surprise despite the closeness of its proximity. In truth, she somehow felt, and thus knew, he was there with her, watching, waiting. She could hear that voice as if he was there in a man's form beside her, speaking low against her ear and rustling the small curls against her cheeks, soft as a lover's touch. In the hours since their first lesson, Christine had found herself increasingly aware of her growing fascination with him. She was even somewhat childishly protective when Buquet and the ballet students spoke of him with demeaning tales of horror and mischief.

She was inevitably forced to curse and reprimand them in her mind, only. So it was that with his soft voice and the arrival of his presence her heart was lifted, her spirit fulfilled merely by his attention. Nodding in response to the Voice that held her obedient and attentive, she smiled and turned to scan the small room with her eyes, though she was keenly aware she wouldn't find him. She caught her reflection in the large mirror that took up the far wall and stood, tightening the satin bow that held her robe together. "I am."

Slowly he dropped his chin, then lifting a hand, he smoothed his fingers over the dipping side of the fedora, drawing it further over the porcelain half of his visage, shadowing it. "You sang beautifully today. And your dancing has taken a turn for the better as well. This pleases me." Lowering his arm and bringing it along the span of his torso, the other lifted soon after, folding across in a comfortable stance.

Her nearing of the mirror almost caused him to step back, but he knew from experience that he couldn't be seen. He didn't make it a habit to watch the women, and when he did it was for a particular purpose. Never did he stay long enough to watch them switch clothing, that just wasn't in his nature. Even the thought alone was abhorrent. It wasn't that he hadn't seen the nude body of a woman, he had had plenty of glimpses within the 'employ' of the Shah. He simply didn't feel comfortable for it was, in its own right, wrong.

She in turn was pleased with his compliment, hanging on to every disembodied word of his gentle voice. To hear his approval greatly satisfied her, and as he had instructed the night before, she took this with a humble gratitude. "I hoped it would please you. It's because of you." Something troubled her then, a loathsome thought she felt compelled to share with him, merely because she had no one else to share it with. "But Carlotta ... " Her voice trailed off and she was sure he knew of what occurrence she spoke of.

Her hands lifted to ring themselves nervously. She spoke quietly then, pacing slowly in bare feet, her brow knit together in frustration. She feared Carlotta was suspicious, or feared, even, that perhaps this Angel had once visited the Prima Donna herself – though this thought was one of simple irrational birth – and trained her, thus her fame and fortune despite not having an outstanding talent. No, surely not. Christine paused in her pacing, settling down again on the stool that rested before her dresser.

Her first comments caused a slow smile to form against the corners of his mouth, though the mentioning of that cow brought the gesture to an abrupt halt and reversal. "Do not worry over Carlotta," he stated abruptly, that warm tone turning icy for just a moment. But then, as if soothing a balm over a wound he had verbally inflicted, the coaxing sound of his voice was heard again, touching both ears as if he was speaking directly to her mind. "Focus only upon yourself and your performance, Christine. There is a long while yet before the opera is to be held. I will train your voice every day if I must. You will be Elissa, I promise you." It was a leap, but he would make sure that she would gain that part, by any means necessary. The stilled position he held was broken as he drew closer to the glass. Now but a foot or so from its surface, he was able to get a much clearer view of her there in the light.

"Ishall sing as Elissa? I don't understand. The roles were cast weeks ago, and La Carlotta has an understudy. Even so, she'd never allow the likes of me, a chorus girl, to sing in her place." She said_ ' _chorus girl' as if to demean herself. It was true that La Carlotta lacked any real depth or the quality of an ingénue to play the part, or even an extraordinarily beautiful voice to produce the same heart wrenching effect that Christine had the night before, but the Prima Donna had friends, a loyal band of admirers, and devotees that applauded her very entrance into a room. Naturally, she held some sway on the managers. Bowing her head, she inspected her hands as they folded over one another, her hair falling into her eyes as she basked still in the assurance of his presence.

"Oh ye of little faith," he tsk'd faintly, his head shaking even though she couldn't see the gesture. Drawing in a slow, silent breath, he expelled it as muted, molten, golden eyes opened to rest upon the non-reflective side of the mirror, and her as well. "It matters not what La Carlotta will allow, my dear. It is not she who makes the decisions, but the audience. They may love her now, but upon hearing your voice..." he trailed a moment, sounding almost wistful against the shell of her delicate ear. "That will change. With me tutoring you, all will change. You will be the new Prima Donna. Not that screeching parrot. You will sing Elissa," he stated with more than a little conviction within his voice.

How the young beauty's face was troubled by such a change in her life. In the matter of moments, hours even, he was promising her the glory she had always wanted, but with what price? What could he hope to gain from this, and was this even a _question_ of gain? Christine still had so much to learn of life, of men, and of the affairs of her own heart, which rested in a murky turmoil of emotion and confusion.

She felt almost as if her voice wasn't her own, its golden expanse merely his own that came flowing like a spiritual revelation through her body. She dared not question him further, her gaze lifting to find the mirror and though she could not see him, she sensed somehow that perhaps looking into her own reflection, into herself, she found him. "Perhaps it is because of my own silly fears that I feel unprepared for such a feat."


	7. Chapter 07

_Quick thanks for my reviewers and readers!_

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"You are not prepared," he agreed, continuing his comment with little to no pause, "at this moment. But you will be. I do not make promises lightly. It will take work and time." Time was something he had plenty of. What was his life? Shutting himself away from the waking world, playing, reading, and composing. Rare it was that he went out upon the streets and usually only when the night lay as a blanket upon the land, further darkened by the lack of moon. He needed to purchase groceries now and again.

Though he might be considered a ghost by those of the Opera House, he was as human as any, if preternaturally so. Not wishing to linger too long upon the subject of La Carlotta, or his protégé's fears, he changed the subject. "Sing for me. Beginning with your lowest note. I wish to see how far your range is." With her being a lyrical soprano, it wouldn't surprise him if she couldn't go as deeply as alto. Contralto would be more comfortable, and mezzo-soprano would be quite easy for her. "F scale."

Christine trusted his words completely, lifting her otherwise downtrodden head to find her reflection and offer a softened smile towards its clarity. She sensed he lingered there. Nodding, she began as instructed, standing and singing his desired scale. Unconsciously, her lids fell heavily over her eyes as she sang, her palm pressed flat to her abdomen as he'd instructed the night before. The sound of her voice lifted to reverberate over every wall of the tiny room and surely into the others, which by now where abandoned. She was poised for his interjection of instruction, but sensing none, she continued on, the sweet crystalline quality of her vocals greatly improved since the previous night.

Her projection was excellent, though there was one flaw he saw more than heard. "Stop," he whispered low, and waiting until her last note died down, he continued. "Move your hand, and try again." One of his arms slid from the cloak, and dropping his hand, his fingers splayed, and hovering just an inch from the glass, he gave a press, as if he was truly pushing upon her diaphragm. "Now." The word drew out in a hush and his hand lifted, 'drawing up' her voice from the very depths of her being.

His voice was barely audible under her singing and still she heard it, as if in her mind. His control was heavy upon her and she did as instructed, her singing ceasing as she lowered her hand to her side. She began again, the quality of her lilting voice clear and angelic as she poured forth her heart to him without hesitation. With his unseen, lifted hand the volume increased, her eyes again closed against the realities that plagued her. Her words came with increasing abandon, Christine's arms put out before her as if reaching for the Voice. Her pink lips rounded out each word clearly, and with each take of breath her ample mantle heaved, the outpour of his adoration apparent in every inch of her frail form. Such a voice; she sang to capture his heart!

His hand continued its lift, drawing over her torso and to her throat. He hesitated, and then lowered his hand to his side. His eyes closed, and he listened to the notes she sang, searching for any flaw or imperfection, only to find none. 'F' could often be a difficult scale, as one was always tempted to draw into the minor instead of keeping to the normal major. "Excellent. Now, the whole scale, major. Mezzo-soprano, so you do not strain your voice. But..before you begin, you would do well to fetch some water. Tepid. Never cold." Since she was a chorus girl she probably wasn't told how to keep her throat from locking up, and that cold water – even if refreshing – would only bother the vocal chords instead of relaxing them. "Return quickly."

As she paused in her singing, the flutter of her lids exposed eyes once more shimmering with tears. She spoke not of it but instead did as instructed, moving towards the door and clutching its brass knob, thus abandoning the room for the time being. She moved quickly down the now darkened corridor, listening carefully for any coming occupants that remained before she rounded the hall and climbed the stairs to the dancers lounge.

All was quiet, save for the stage hands that remained to work into the night on preparing the set for _Hanibal. _Entering through the glass double doors of the area, she moved along the far wall towards the table arrayed with the silver pitcher of water and mugs of the same metal. Hurriedly, so as to return as quickly as told, she poured into the mug a fair quantity of its aqua contents. She moved towards her destination silently, a pupil fixed only on her lesson. Through the shadowed stairway and corridor she slipped as if she herself were an apparition in her white, flowing robe.

Just as the night prior, she wasn't the only one lingering around the opera house. There were those left to clean as well as fix up various things that sorely needed repair before the next opera made its production upon the stage. It was no surprise that she wouldn't come across any of them with the house being so large.

"Well, well. 'allo poppet."

Or maybe not large enough. A brawny arm snapped off to the side, palm flat against the wall, as a familiar scent cut her off from her destination. Whiskey and musk. Joseph grinned broadly as he lowered his head, nearly coming face to face with the young ingénue. "Won'dren 'round the halls, eh? Tis a might late for you to be doin' that. Never know whatcha find 'round 'ere."

She'd all but spilt the water at this sudden intrusion, a gasp of fear parting set lips as she walked directly into his arm. Quickly, however, she recovered and moved away, though the closeness of his proximity and the narrow width of the hallway gave her little hope for escape. She had half a mind to call on her Angel but feared somehow that he would disappear if their association was discovered.

Her doe eyes lifted carefully to Joseph, the stench of his alcohol and his deathly cruel odor drawing quite a perturbed gathering upon the bridge of her little nose. Obviously, around here, one found Buquet wandering the halls in a drunken and 'lonely' stupor. She was clearly rattled and longed only to return to the security of her dressing room, and to her Angel. "Let me pass, Monsieur, if you please."

The fear was dripping off of her like wax from a lit candle, and he soaked it up vehemently. They were always so much more fun to play with when they were afraid. "Oh come now. I ain't gonna hurtcha any. Just a bit curious as to ya roamin'. All the other girls already went off, and yet, 'ere ya are, lingerin'." Lifting his other hand, keeping the first firm against the wall to block her path, he collected a dark curl of her hair and twisted it with his fingers, his grin ticking just a bit wider. "Takin' a likin' to ol' Joseph thatcha wander about, dressed in ya fancies, I says." Giving a rumbling chuckle he parted his fingers, letting the tendril drop harmlessly.

Clutching the mug of water to her breast, she flinched slightly as his hand lifted menacingly to clutch at ... a strand of her hair. If she could have melted into the wall or the floor, she would have done so gladly to escape the advances of the man ten times her size. As he lumbered over her, softened vocals came forth timidly in an attempt to explain her 'lingerin''. "I'm rehearsing as Madame Giry instructed, is all. I will be on my way now, Monsieur." She straightened to move forth as if she had the strength in her tiny frame to push him aside. She wanted to call for aid, but who would come at this time of night? Another stage hand such as Buquet, leering and smelling of whiskey and the heavy dampness of the cellars beneath the Opera?

"Rehearsin' is ya? Aye, s'what I heard earlier. Followed the sound, I did. Might pretty voice too." His weight shifted, just enough that he took up most of the room within that narrow passage. Elbow bent, he lowered some to further block her way. "Got me wonderin', just how loud y'can be." Cooler, and nonchalant his tone had become, that grin changing as well to something a tad more sinister. "Ya think, if ya screamed, others would be able to h–..." choking subtly upon that word, the grin suddenly faded, and all of the color seemed to drain from his face.

He wasn't looking at her at the time, but _past_ her into the darkness. It was but a glimpse, but that's all it took; a brief moment of looking dead into eyes of molten gold, narrowed and murderous, one of which was trapped within a sea of smooth white. He slid his arm away and moved from her with a slight nod. "I uh.. right. Take care roamin', bird." Visibly shaken, he might have even wet himself if he hadn't gone to the latrine prior to this meeting.

Her fear had increased, as it had the previous night at that ticking of the metronome in the dark. However, from this meeting nothing as pure and inspirational would result. She was visibly trembling, her eyes wide as he loomed above her, leering with the last of his words, when his toothy grin melted, the fire in his eyes freezing over as his ruddy cheeks lost the color once retained there. He was looking beyond her now and before she had the mind to turn and investigate, he was stumbling for words, signaling to her a chance for retreat.

She quickly shoved past him, practically running towards her dressing room for fear that whatever spooked him would loosen its hold. Reaching her dressing room door, she quickly entered and locked it behind her, pressing her back firmly against its surface and letting out a low moan of discontent. Not only had she returned to him late, it was because of that detestable Joseph and his dangerous antics. She did not wait for the Voice to speak but moved immediately to her dresser, setting down the mug of water and sitting herself upon the stool. She buried her face in her hands, shaking as she did.

"Wise," was the only word Joseph heard before he was completely left alone in the hallway, that lone 's' hissed from cold lips. Where Christine had taken various paths to get back to her dressing room, he went a more secretive way, passing through hidden corridors. It was a good thing that he decided to follow her. Joseph might have gotten it into his head to touch more than he had already, then he would have had to strangle the man with his bare hands. Buquet would come to understand quickly that this young woman had the Opera Ghost looking after her, if he hadn't figured it out already. Then again, the drunken lout might have thought it to be a coincidence that the Phantom showed up at that time.

Returning to the mirror just moments before she walked in, he paused in front of the one-sided glass and watched her silently. No, he wouldn't have strangled the man with his hands. He would have disemboweled him and hung him by his own intestines.

Her form shook with fear and with the tears that now flowed. Poor young maiden, so rattled by the advances of drunken, scalawag stage hands. She wiped at the tears furiously, attempting to conceal them from her Angel as she turned towards the sensation of his presence once more. Comfort washed over her as if he'd taken her into his very arms, and she caught her reflection in the mirror once more. "Forgive me. I ran, but ... but Joseph was there. He blocked my way ..." She trailed off, tears flowing upon her cheeks and venturing towards her lips were she pursed them away. Her arms lifted to gather around each opposite partner, her palms drawing her forearms towards her breasts as she released a shaken sigh.

Within that familiar, enveloping silence he watched her. So fragile, so vulnerable. That much larger man could have easily torn into her, muffling her screams with a grimy hand while violating that innocent form. That same ignorant pest snooped around the lower corridors, often coming far too close to the lake that separated his lair from the waking world. White knuckled was the grip he had, fingers curled so tightly that nails, were they not shod in soft leather, would have buried deeply into his palms.

She needed more than a tutor, she needed a protector. One to ensure that she would not be harmed by such.. '_men'! _he spat inwardly, venomously. _More like 'boys.' _Volcanic rage was brought to a low simmer when she spoke again. Then looking upon her tear stained face, all hints of anger vanished like smoke on a breeze. "Shh, child. I am not angry,"_ at you._ "No need for excuses. Calm yourself, my dear. I'll not let any harm you."

His words of comfort only wrought more tears, a glimmer of happiness enveloping her. He must've been the Angel her father promised! Her guide and protector, her teacher -- surely it was his presence that Buquet had sensed, thus saving her from the brute. A happy smile formed on her pallid lips as the tears streamed down her cheeks. Her hands lifted to pat them away, her voice gentle and muffled by her cries as she requested so humbly of her gifted Angel; "Sing to me? Only for a little while?" Her childlike manner of questioning came naturally in her time of need, and as she drew in whimpering breathes and rocked herself ever so slightly, she studied that mirror where her reflection seemed riddled by another, something deeper and beyond as if a shadow splayed behind it. Perhaps it was just her imagination.

Uncurling his fingers he lifted one hand, cupping the top of his hat to smooth it from his head, then the other hand rose as well, pressing through the slicked strands, shedding away the final remnants of tension. Following the hand, the velvet of the fedora was slid back into place. Sing for her? Hat's edge tipped over covered features, and he lifted his eyes to rest upon her as she studied her reflection. Her gaze searched, and he suddenly wondered if she could see him. He didn't question her on what she would like to hear, only began.

A gentle cant of a hum at first, the measures of instrumental music that couldn't be provided by voice no matter how otherworldly he might seem, then the words came. Not Romanian this time, this had more of a desert hint to it, revealing yet another place he had traveled. As a perfectionist, he had learned the languages of his surroundings and had kept practicing them until he had had no hint of his own accent within. This one he sang to her now, in Persian, had been especially difficult. Closing his eyes he imagined the expansive oasis, the comfortable harem pits, projected these images within the words he sang as he made an attempt to calm her further.

At the first hint of his voice, her soul was immediately set at ease. Buquet in the darkened corridor, or the other worldly villains outside could not touch her now. Her spirit was wrapped in the warmth of his song and in the power with which his voice held her. Her eyes closed gainst the dwindling flow of fearful tears and she melted into a supreme feeling of happiness. Her body, once tense and set on edge for fear Joseph would again find her, relaxed and drifted into the peaceful cradle of his song. She found herself longing so to join him in his song if only she'd known its words, memorized with such delicate care as he had.

_Angel of Music. What a fitting title._ There were times when he forgot the power that his voice could have. That pure, hypnotic quality that lay beneath the thrumming tenor, beckoning to the soul of man and woman alike. Only one other before had gotten a thorough tasting of that voice, drawn from all forms of reality, wrapped by the strength of what _he_ wanted her to see. What _he_ wanted her to believe. A perfect boy with perfect features, though lifeless, small and wooden.

How could he forget? Being alone, down in that lair, with none to hear his songs besides furry, cupped ears. Yes, he could forget. Or just didn't want to remember. The familiar wanton passion and intensified emotion lay within every syllable, though it was but a simple song of a merchant selling his wares. Jovial and light, the song died, coming to a silent stand still upon one gently vibrated note.

How her soul longed to go with those notes into heaven. How her heart swelled with each impassioned word! She adored him then, just as she had when he'd promised that none would harm her whence she was under his care. That same adoration shone in her eyes at his song's ending, her gaze lifted towards nowhere in particular though her words were solely his. "That was beautiful. I scarcely breathed. I didn't want to miss a word." She laughed somewhat at this, listening to herself, a young woman telling a disembodied Voice, indirectly, of her devotion.

He would teach her to sing that way, she knew. He had granted her wings the previous night and now? Now he would teach her to use them. Her eyes still moistened with tears, she ventured to the mirror once more, and for all that she tried to strain and see even his outline, all that was reflected was her own form.


	8. Chapter 08

A wry touch came to his lips at her words, and he cracked open his eyes again, bringing the eccentric gaze to rest upon her. She was regarding the mirror. No,.. beyond regarding it. She was closely _studying_ it. Keeping any and all traces of suspicion from his voice, he questioned innocently, "What do you see when you look within the mirror, child? Go stand before it and tell me all." 'Go' instead of 'come.' He didn't want to give any hints at all that he was behind that reflective glass.

Loosely clasping his fingers against his elbows he closed his eyes to half lid in a decidedly lazy manner; a cat that had just eaten a belly full of cream. Though he was curious as to her answer, his thoughts drifted back toward the lout for a moment and how he was going to take care of that little situation.

She stood at his command and moved towards the mirror, his question innocent enough, and it was merely a coincidence to Christine that he had mentioned it all. Approaching its floor to ceiling surface, she eyed her reflection with mild interest. When she stepped closer to the mirror, he found himself doing the same. Mimicking her own steps until she paused so close, within touching range if there hadn't been a plane of glass between them. He did lift a hand, though, and his fingers hovered near the smooth surface before they lightly touched where her jaw should have been.

Her eyes traced over the contours of her face and shoulders, down across her breasts and slender abdomen to the small curve of her hips and the branches of her legs below. On the surface, she fancied herself an attractive enough young woman. Her eyes were her charm, as well as her smile that when evoked, could easily be said to serve as a substitute light in the darkness. Her thick brown curls accentuated the porcelain expanse of her skin, drawing out her pink mouth and cheeks.

However, beneath the surface … what could one say of Christine? She had spent the majority of her days in the Opera Populaire mourning for her father and pulling into herself all of the emotions she so longed to express in song, as her father had. She had loved once, been happy once, listened to tales of Little Lotte and laughed and knew the warmth of the sun upon her cheeks. Now she felt as if she'd been gutted at the market, every childish impulse and feeling stripped from her and in their wake, left with a heart of dull expression. But how to convey this and more in words?

She sighed, easing closer to the mirror until she was but inches from its surface, gazing into her own eyes and speaking aloud. "I see reflected on the surface myself and yet … I some how see your light in my eyes. Have I gone mad? Do I dream again, as I did for so long of my father returning to me?"

"No, you've not gone mad. Nor do you dream. You are quite awake, Christine." Curling his fingers away from the glass, he closed his eyes a moment, then steeling his resolve, he dropped his arm back beneath the cloak. Thin, fleshy lids rose, allowing him to bring her into his line of sight once more. At least now he knew that she didn't see anything foreign within that reflection. Nothing that would give away his position before her, regardless of his voice appearing to be behind her. "Your water." He glanced past her a moment, to the mug she had carried with her. He had become distracted from her lessons, and inwardly chastised himself for doing so. "And your scales."

Somewhere within, Christine reasoned silently, he must have felt _something, _justas she had. She had no idea of the rarity of even this exposure to another and thus her spirit was somewhat discontented when he swiftly changed the topic. She gazed into that mirror a moment longer, tempted to lift her hand to its surface as if to urge some sort of response, though for all she knew, he could've been above or below her, or somewhere different all together. Bowing her head however, she turned and reached for the water that now at last was lukewarm. Taking a sip of its dull refreshment, she replaced the mug on the surface of her dresser and turned to stand at the center of the room, awaiting his instruction.

He could not allow himself to want anything further from this girl. Couldn't allow himself to have the desire to come to this surface world of light and laughter. It had been destined, since the beginning, since his birth, that he was supposed to remain within the land of night and darkness. Away from the 'perfects' of the world. He wasn't perfect, and that was a fact he was reminded of each and every time he happened to pass a reflected surface. Though the deformity was covered, he knew what lay beneath the perfect sculpting of a facade. It haunted him day in and day out.

When she moved away he released a slow breath and waited for her to finish drinking before he spoke further. "Begin from C, continue to B. Mezzo-soprano." Seven different scales. It might bring a bit of a burn to her throat by time she reached G, but he wanted to test her stamina, to see how long she could go before her throat would begin to strain a bit. Operas ran for hours, and at times the leading lady sang for most of the opera.

She did as instructed, leaving her hands at her sides as she climbed each beginning scale with ease. It wasn't until she moved higher that her expression shifted, her voice straining, the irritation drawing her brows together tightly. She stove to please him, to prove herself worthy of his instruction, but the burning sensation hindered her striving. She quickly ceased in her venture up the scales, breathing in deeply and reaching for her mug of water, half expecting him to scold her. She cleared her throat several times, the surface of her palm running along her neck as she grimaced slightly at the agitated muscles within. She would begin again but not until he instructed her to. For now she calmly sipped her water.

There was no scolding, simply an understanding silence. She had gotten further than he had first thought she would, which was good. She was already exceeding his expectations. "Take your time." He didn't want her to work out her vocal chords too soon, that wouldn't be good, not in the least. Her career would end before it ever began. "When you are ready, begin where you left off. Raise your chin, straighten your shoulders. Ensure you have perfect posture, child. Or you will strain more than you need to. Give your voice free passage through your body." He knew well that burn that settled deeply in her throat now, and only hoped that she followed his instruction, giving her muscles time to relax.

She desired only to please him, perhaps even to impress upon him her compliance to obey his commands. His voice alone inspired in her striving leaps of her own, and it was as if he'd become the key to unlocking all of the emotions she held so firmly within her heart. With his gentle coaxing, she would do as instructed. Her posture, if not one of trained acceptance now, would be even further perfected by his guidance.

Setting the silver mug aside, she continued. She focused on his last hint of advice, willing her voice to take that free passage throughout her body as he'd instructed. She imagined the currents of each scale a vapor that began at her feet, tangling round her legs as it lifted her from this world and carried her into the next. This vapor held her captivated, and while she thought of it as she sang, the Voice was most assuredly what accompanied it. : Her jaw released to allow the notes to escape, her eyes closed and her chin lifted to the ceiling, her siren's call an undeniable and building force that proclaimed in its wordless ring a cry from the pits of her very soul.

He could almost swear that with every minute that passed her voice became more pure, more heartfelt. Though it was crystal, he knew there was always room for improvement. She was not yet perfect, but she would be with his guidance. Finding that his hand lifted before he even realized it, he allowed it to remain aloft, gloved fingertips touching against the smooth surface of the mirror. The tip of index drew against the line of her jaw, then over the front of her throat slowly. Splaying his fingers he placed his palm against the glass with a closing of his eyes. "Good," he murmured softly, then after a moment, projected his voice to the shell of her ear. "The minor scale now. Ensure you breathe before you begin to feel the burn of needed air. Do not force out the breath, my dear."

The closeness of the Voice sent chills along her skin, and as she pressed on, the faint sensation of his eyes upon her skin encouraged more from her than ever. Her own soprano lifted high, over her own expectations of herself, her control over the erratic bounding of each note far from her own. She seemed almost possessed by some foreign spirit and still she sang on until the need for more air became too great. She felt faint, and with a shaking whimper, instantly collapsed to the cushioned seat behind her. She felt drained then, her spirit and eagerness to please him dwindling under the almost supernatural twist her voice had adopted. "I can't …" was her only struggled response, her head bowed low in shame and exhaustion.

When her voice trailed off he cracked open his eyes, which soon narrowed. "Yes, you can. Get up and try once more. C minor to B." That warm tone turned chilly. Acting before he thought, there were times when even he fell into that habit. Dragging in a breath to calm down the sudden burn within his chest, he moistened his lower lip. He mustn't push her. Pressing her past her limit could end up with dire consequences. Though they had only begun upon the scales, practice had just started, and they had work to do on the opera itself. "Try again, Christine," he said, a lot more gently than before, the sudden growl in his voice gone now, replaced by a lulling purr.

She remained sitting for a few moments longer, catching her breath and her composure. However, the anger in his voice was not lost on little Christine and she quickly stood to obey, fearing his wrath, perhaps, more than the thought of his divine instruction leaving her. She began again, the courage and conviction of each note hidden behind her silken vocal chords. She was far from perfected, this was true. However, in his presence alone she felt capable of so much more than she had before that fateful evening in the darkened auditorium.

She thought, as she sang, of a time in the near future, as he promised, when she'd claim the stage as her own above La Carlotta, above all others. It was with this thought that great fear enveloped her, and the thought of being indebted to the Opera Ghost suddenly became one that had her mind venturing from the lesson entirely. She sang on however, perhaps too unsure of herself to question the reasons as to why he had picked her from the chorus line to tutor, and to eventually become his voice above the surface of his damnable existence.

In the beginning she was doing perfectly, but he began to hear the discomfort within her voice, the uncertainty. Sliding his hand against the glass he moved it over to another portion of the mirror, watching her from a half lidded gaze. Tilting his head faintly, he then pulled his hand completely from the surface and tucked his hand into the pocket of his slacks. "Stop, and rest your voice, my dear. The night is long and we have much to go over. Do you think that you are prepared, or do you tire?" After the practicing earlier with her dancing and singing, he wouldn't be surprised if she was tired. While he could go on for days without a proper rest, he didn't think that to be the same for her.

As instructed she halted in her practice, again sitting as if drained by the exertions of her singing. She felt almost as if her golden voice had become an enemy she was to fear, and as she smoothed her palm along her neck, she began to wonder if she really could indeed sing in La Carlotta's place. She wanted nothing more than to make the Angel of Music proud, and somehow she remembered then her father and his promise.

She had been in the Conservatoire not even a month when her father fell ill and lingered between life and death, and his promise to send to her an Angel, seemingly enough, had been fulfilled. But what then? Would she be subject to the Voice, solely in his quest to perfect the Opera? What could a mere chorus girl hope to hold in swagger over such a being as the Voice? With his words, a sigh of relief touched her lips though she hid it by her bowed head. Fingers toyed idly with the lace upon her robe, eyes lifted to empty space as she spoke softly, barely above a whisper for fear her answer would anger him. "I mean no impertinence, Angel, but I do grow weary."

_There is always tomorrow,_ he stated to himself. _Do not push.._ "Rest.. Tomorrow we will begin again. I will come to you. Ensure that you are alone." That would save him the trouble of telling her to wait for him on the stage, only to find that it was still full near midnight and she was close to exhaustion. Tonight, he would follow her, to ensure that she got to where ever she needed to go safely. It was late, and he was going to keep to her word of protecting her, even if that did bring him out into the public eye. The mere thought of it, of going outside, brought a faint grimace to half concealed features. Then again, she could always rest here... "Shall I sing you to your slumber?"

Her exhaustion rest heavily upon her lids, void of the thick stage make-up La Carlotta oft donned even when the Opera was only in rehearsals for a production. However, Christine's beauty was of natural grace. Her cheeks still held that same flushed color as it had earlier in practice when her voice had stunned even the aforementioned Prima Donna herself from boasts of her triumphs. Her hand lifted to stifle a tiny yawn as she nodded, remembering herself and answering aloud at his question. "Oh, would you?"

She donned a lazy sort of smile, and half pondering on standing and moving to undress, the work at the present seemed too much of a trivial hassle on her weary form. Instead, she leant forward to rest her elbow upon the oak surface of her dresser, her cheek thus resting atop the cushion created by the crook. Her free arm folded across her abdomen, the position not entirely idealistic for her rest but comfortable. _Besides, _she told herself, _I'll rise and change soon. For now, I'm simply resting my head._

"It would be my pleasure," his words were truthful. He enjoyed singing for others, when he got the chance, and when they weren't able to see his masked face. People asked questions, too many questions. Often wanting to see what laid behind the mask, and when they were given the opportunity they all screamed, ran or stood there in shock with horror written upon their faces.

Every. Last. One of them.

What should he sing to her? Perhaps another lullaby to ensure that she rests well? While he thought he watched her settle against the dresser and a faint lift came to the corner of his mouth. He had a feeling that she was going to be there all evening. But just in case she would get up in the middle of the night-  
early day, he would remain behind the mirror. The thought of Joseph touching her was enough to have him keep that resolve. Drawing in a slow breath, he effortlessly kept the soothing near-bass song close to her ear, as if he was lingering just over her shoulder. Another foreign song, who's language flowed easily across his tongue.

Just as his voice soothed over her soul, a soft smile tugged at her lips. Her eyes closed, she savored in each note as it lifted and fell over her spirit and the illusion of his closeness only stirred but a softened whimper from within her. Like the delicate dance of fingers upon her skin she could sense his eyes on her, and the song left an impression of gentleness and peace on her resting form. She felt warm and assuredly safe in the embrace of his music, and if music truly had the power to expel all troubles of reality save for it's own sounds, which pierced her heart and soul, his had proven this to her. No sooner had she shifted to derive comfort from that position when sleep overcame her, his voice lulling her into an eased rest that shallowed her rising breast and rendered her void of all troublesome factors of consciousness.

She looked so delicate resting there, as if she had no care in the world. Was it true that there could be such innocence and purity within the world? Or was he jumping to conclusions? She could seem shy and ignorant around this building, but outside she could be a wanton harlot. Closing his eyes he settled gloved fingertips against the glass, then placing a palm there he continued with the song, bringing it down to no more than a gentle whisper. When it drew close to an end he placed his brow against the back of his hand, his eyes subtly cracked open, though seeing nothing.

Delving deeply into his thoughts he began to question himself – not that it wasn't the first time. What was he doing, truly? What was he dragging this young woman into? Stardom was the first thing that came to his mind. But beyond that, beyond surface desires? Last note lingered upon the air, then silence enveloped the room. Raising his eyes he looked upon her again, then slid away from the mirror to lower next to his portfolio. Taking it up from the ground he took it's place, sitting comfortably.

There he would stay, silently watching over her.


	9. Chapter 09

It was early within another day that Christine awakened to a darkened dressing room, the candles having long since extinguished by their own burnt up suicide. Even in those wee hours of the morning, groggy and seemingly alone, she still sensed the lingering presence of her Angel, her protector. She moved to the chaise lounge for some semblance of comfort but found instead a sore neck and back that called for the cloud-like softness of her own bed.

Standing stiffly, she'd shift slowly to the center of the shadowed room, blinking hard to fight the enveloping dark. "You're still here, my Angel?" Unfastening the tie of her robe at her waist, she'd slip the garment off and away to drape the flimsy fabric over the high ledge of her boudoir. She was left in her tartan and gauze tutu, and as she leant slowly forward to unlace her shoes, she continued on softly. "I must have drifted off ..."

This time he actually got a bit of work done, though it was only two bars of music. Able to write straight from the music in his mind, he found it much better if he had an organ in front of him. Mid scrolling, his own exhaustion had caught up with him and his head tipped back to rest against the stone. The lay of the fedora became disturbed and half tipped over his face. There he slept, his senses open to any movement she might give, though it was her voice more than her standing that had him awaken. Pressing the fedora back he took a moment to realize where he was, then turned a glance toward the mirror. "I am here, Christine. Did you rest well?" Lifting his hand he gave a slow rub to his face and exhaled a slow breath. She spoke the very words he was thinking.

She gave a small smile at the arrival of his dear voice then slipped behind her dressing screen. She undressed her quickly, almost consciencely as if fearful he might have been watching. In her trusting heart however, Christine sensed her Angel was doing nothing of the sort. She was correct, for when she moved to the screen he turned his attention to the parchments that laid at his side. Though she was hidden he wasn't going to violate her privacy or modesty by keeping his eyes upon her.

Shortly after, she'd emerged from behind the fabric'd screen in her gown of the deepest midnight blue, creme crotched lace accentuating the sleeves and delicate hem of the full skirt and bustle. She pulled away her hair from her cheeks with a simple wooden comb and her small hands brushed over the mass of curls as she spoke. "Mama Valerius was expecting me hours ago." She hurriedly pulled on her woolen cloak, pausing before the large surface of the mirror as she fastened it around her neck. "Until tomorrow, dear Angel ..." Her head bowed, she slipped in a rustle of heavy fabric towards the door.

What time _was_ it? Dipping a hand beneath the cape he slipped his pocket watch from his slacks and clicked it open to check upon the time. Nodding to himself he clicked it closed, the sound never entering the room she was in. Tucking the watch away he slowly pressed to a stand, grimacing against the pain that echoed through his joints. He wasn't as young as he used to be, and it was times like this when he was reminded of that fact. "Until tomorrow, my dear." He wasn't looking forward to the trip back down to the lair, but it would pass time until they were to meet again. Pausing within his turn he watched her over the curve of a shoulder as she departed.

Turning his head he glanced downward, thoughtfully. He needed his rest, though he also wanted to find out where she was staying. Stay or go? He hated being riddled with decisions. It was close to dawn, though. The sun was too far high for his liking, and he didn't want her to end up seeing him. It was only by shadow that he allowed himself to 'vanish.' A lot more difficult to do when someone could see clearly. Shaking his head gently he continued along his way, drawing down the stairs and to the corridors, allowing his thoughts to settle upon his mind again.

She cast one last glance to the room before she exited into the hall and shut the door behind her. For fear of Joseph's return she walked as quietly as she could, easing along the wall carefully and listening intently for any signs of another being in the hall. Rounding the corner, she climbed swiftly up the stairs and ventured past the dancers lounge, moving on in the darkness with assured steps. It struck her then of the direct distinction between the Opera house during the day, and then after sunset.

She traveled along the halls that, by daylight, were riddled with patrons coming and going, the shuffling of the younger ballet students as they migrated from room to room, the far off drilling of the piano accompanied by laughter and gaiety. What remained in it's place after hours was a heavy blanket of silence that seeped under doorways of abandoned rooms, the creaking of a various board here and there as it settled in the coming winter months, and the unease of mystery that lingered beneath the surface of the picturesque building. Entering onto the street from a side door, she searched quickly along the cobblestoned streets for a near-by cab, tugging then the wide brim of her hood to shield her face from the cold.

He could have gone all the way to his home without glancing up once, but it wasn't reaching his door that had him snap out of this haze. It was the feel of cold, fresh air upon his skin. Bringing his hands up, he adjusted the collar of the cloak as he heard steps draw close. Turning his head he watched the man roam by without a glance in the masked one's direction, then grunted beneath his breath. Drawing the fedora down off to the right, he stepped further out into the alley, drawing along the side of the opera house toward the main street. Before he turned the corner he glanced out. He knew why he had ended up here, though she was probably already gone by now.

Drawing the cape further around her shoulders and torso – the cold an obstacle she hadn't anticipated – she opted to venture carefully into the cobblestoned street when there wasn't a cabby in sight. All was quiet around the block the Opera House consumed, and as she ventured further from it's edge, she was tempted to draw her gaze around quickly to observe it's looming structure. By the light of the impending dawn and the street lamps that had yet to be snuffed by their attendants, nor by the stirring of the chilled breeze, she hurried along towards her destination which wasn't far off. She anticipated every noise and stir of remaining shadow, sending side long glances over her shoulder every now and then.

He had begun to draw back so he could head home when he swore he caught sight of her cloak. Lifting a hand he rested it against the wall beside him, as his eyes faintly narrowed. That _was_ her. Studying his surroundings, more than appeased to see that there weren't many people upon the street, he waited until she was several paces away from him before he'd step out. He didn't want to chance her glancing back and seeing him too clearly. As antsy as she could be, she just might take off running. _Just why are you following her? _he had to question himself. Did he truly wish to know where she lived, or was he making excuses to himself? It was drawing toward daylight, and the amount of people would grow soon. Unfortunates and unsavory characters lurked here and there, without a doubt. The streets of Paris, no matter how rich the neighborhood, tended to have at least on or two paid harlots lingering around, hunting down their next client to be able to pay their 'bosses.'

_Harlots, indeed._ The Opera House was but a short distance from Montmarte and the heart of the Paris underworld itself and still the unfortunate women of the night still found their way into the more scaled side of the city. She passed the likes of those Unfortunates here and there, their reddened mouth and powdered, developed breast slinking from the shadows to eye down the child who turned her face away from their garish presence.

Onward she traveled, ironically oblivious to his presence outside the walls of the Opera House. Her cloak caught the wind and sailed out at her sides slightly as she darted around corner blocks and hurried like an apparition beneath street lamps. Up ahead Mama Valerius' estate loomed, relief crossing her features as she stepped up onto the sidewalk and hurried towards the home.

Where she passed unmolested, he didn't escape so easily. Catching sight of his gentleman's attire, clothing that screamed wealth, the small group that lingered within an alley murmured among each other, judging who deserved this client. Each of them had to make a certain amount before the night was completely over with or they had to pay the price in ways they wouldn't like in the least. Her sudden turn around the corner had him pick up his pace, ignoring the flutter of his own cloak that snapped off to his sides, mimicking, for a moment, the wings of a bat. Drawing close to the building's corner he glanced around its side, seemingly unaware of the hungry gleam of several pairs of eyes that were cast in his direction. From her he glanced, raising his eyes to the building she was moving to. Now he knew where she lived... even if he didn't much have a reason to know. The knowledge would come in handy in the future, perhaps.

She slinked along the iron cast gate that marked off the front of the property. Turning and venturing swiftly up to the porch, she pulled the key from her coin purse and slipped it's patterned head quickly into the door. Upon entrance, a wary glance was tossed around the foyer and into the parlor just beyond the rounded stair case. Above her, Mama Valerius' snores traveled from the first bedroom, and as she ascended the stair well in silence, tugging the hood from atop her mess of curls, a smile even dared to cross her exhausted features. The tense manner in which she'd fleed to this place had greatly strained her and so it was understood that the entrance into her comfortable chambers drew a long sigh of relief. Still, now out of harms way, her mind was traveling again to her Angel as it had the previous night.

Hawk-like eyes kept their fix upon her, watching as she headed to the front doors then finally within. He went no further than where he stood, studying the building that she had taken residence. It was a boarding home, not an actual manse. There was so little he knew about this woman, but he wanted to know more. Smoothing his fingers against the wall he pressed away, pausing when he heard someone approach him from behind. By the cheap perfume that assaulted his nose, he knew right away just who – or what – it was.

"Lovely evening, is it not, Sir?" His shoulders drew taut beneath the layer of clothing and he tipped the perfect side of his face just slightly so he could glance over his shoulder to the woman. "I am not interested," he stated simply with little to no warmth within his words. How desperate would a harlot have to be, knowing that he was hiding something beneath his mask? Truly, would it even matter to her? As long as she was getting her coin for the evening she wouldn't care. But he _would_. Keeping his back to her, he tugged his cloak closer around him, as if he was bothered by the chill in the air, when in actuality he was using the collar to shadow his face. Though he was going in the wrong direction, he stepped away from her.

"Aw, come along. It's _frightfully _cold and I can most certainly be good company, Monsieur. Warm both of us up." That breathy laugh was rugged and hot as she ventured closer towards this new stranger, a man of some wealth as apparent by his attire. Bare hands tugged the flimsy material of shawl from her shoulders, her stance leant forward as to display her certain assets which were exposed in the manner of her kind at the low cut mantle of her haughty gown.

In the light she looked haggard, great circles forming beneath her heavily drawn up eyes and lines cutting deep into her brow and cheeks. However, she wasn't but a year head of his Muse in age, though life on the streets had taken it's toll on her appearance. Her strong perfume and the wilting flower that rested tangled in her thin locks of dish water blonde proved her attempt at an allure, and her gap toothed grin showed signs of decay and Lord knows what else. "Don't you want to have a spot of fun?"

As if he had just realized that he was going the wrong way, he shifted his weight, and pressing it to one foot he turned , giving the woman wide berth along his left side so he'd be going in the correct direction. The strides were long legged, but unrushed, not about to 'run' from anyone upon these streets. Especially the woman that was following him like a hungry terrier at his heels.

"I am quite sure, _Mademoiselle_," he stated curtly, then continued. "That my form of 'fun' and your own will be most different. Now.." Pausing with a low flutter of cloth about his ankles, he glanced back toward her over a now semi-hunched shoulder. "As I have stated before, I am not interested. I bid you _adieu_."

Lifting a gloved hand he touched the brim of his fedora, only faintly giving it a tip. This was one reason why he didn't come to the surface, to the outside. Little things reminded him of his disfigured lot. Such as this woman here, though she was no real looker herself. Only God knew just what diseases might have been housed within that unclean body.

"Oh, I don't know love ... I can be quite mmpersuasive." She grinned that toothy grin and if one wanted evidence that to each soul had it's mate, this woman was surely the counterpart of the Opera's very own Buquet. She followed his movement with her eyes, lingering close as her grimy hands reached forth from behind him to grasp at his waist beneath the cloak.

"Come on, love .. I'll even cut down the wager to fifteen francs." Highly unlikely, but anything to show for her night spent on the cold, lonely streets, right? Her employeer would be quite cross with her if not. She pressed flush along his back, her greedy hands lowering towards his hips as she breathed into his ear and laughed.

She had probably never felt someone so tense in their life. As if every muscle was drawn and as tight as a bow string, ready to snap at any given moment. He stared forward, utterly silent, as she neared enough to be able to speak close to his ear. It wasn't that he wanted her there that had him remain. No, it was the realization, the pained realization that only this type of woman could ever want him. And that wasn't even true want! Over the years he had gotten used to the cold, empty sensation in his chest, but there were times when something stretched it enough to make it feel as if it would completely shroud him in impassiveness. Mercurial; that pain and anguish turned into something pure; _Hate_. "Fifteen?" He stated after what seemed like an eternity, the melodic words devoid of emotion. "Have you a room, then?"

She wanted him? His coin? She would get both.

In _abundance._


	10. Chapter 10

She was pleased with his reaction and more than aware of his tension, though this lowly Unfortunate resolved to work that out of him. Her grin widened with the question of her price and things were indeed looking up for the child of the night. Belelia – her street given name, for she'd forgotten that given to her at birth – slunk back from her, what she believed to be, prey and again returned those haggard hands to her hips haughtily, her chin jerked to motion slightly over her shoulder. "This way, precious." The pink muscle within the darkened cave of her mouth slithered forth to moisten her cracked and peeling lips, and she reached out a hand in request for his. Indeed, her 'room' was but a darkened doorway that proved to be only a few feet to find.

Again he gave a look over his shoulder, to see where she was gesturing, and waiting until she turned around he regarded the hand that she held out for him as if it was some digesting thing. He wouldn't touch it, of course. Even if his hands were gloved. It was moments like this when he was sickened by humanity, having him appreciate the purer things within this world more than he had already. "I will follow, only if you can ensure we will have _complete _privacy." Looking upon his clothes, he could have been someone of importance that didn't want it to get out on the tabloids that he had been found fraternizing with a whore. Raising a hand from the cape to pull down the fedora slightly off to the right instead of take her hand, he then drew the limb back beneath the drape of black.

She turned her gaze to find his, dropping her hand again to her hip as she squared to face him. "Yea, we'll have our privacy." She snickered and continued on, "but eh, I'll need to see that you can pay, Monsieur. So long as you pay, you get the lay, right?" Her laughter came choked by a harsh cough, her palm lifting to flatten over her exposed breast to fight down the fit of coughs that wracked through her form. Clearing her throat harshly, she again lifted her gaze to meet his and returned to her mouth that plastered grin of feigned and failing seduction.

_Bronchitis,_ he intoned, critically regarding the pallor of her skin and the racking sound of her cough. Curable if one could pay the medical expenses. She, obviously, couldn't afford such things, and most likely her ..employer would not care less if she keeled over. It was not as expensive getting another whore to work those particular rounds. Sinking his hand into the pocket of his slacks he pulled free the small pouch. While he didn't make it a habit to come to the surface, he always did bring some money with him, just in case he might have the itch to head out and get something to eat.

Easing open the cord of the pouch he drew forth Tour Eiffel imprinted silver coin of five francs, he then shook the pouch so she'd hear the other coins. "Is this evidence enough, Mademoiselle? Now, lead the way." Before she could try to snatch it from his hand it vanished within the coil of fingers to be replaced. Apathetically he met her gaze, unfazed by her foul attempts at further luring.

The flash of the coin set those greedy eyes aflame with promise of dodging another beating from her boss. She nodded emphatically, turning to lead the way as she tossed over shoulder after several steps were taken, quite casually as she idly unfastened the top four strings of her bodice. "Anything particular you want? It'll cost ya extra if you want my hands bound. Oh, an' if I'm blindfolded also." She stooped forward to scoop up her tattered skirt, under-nourished limbs warmed only by wool stockings that sported their assorted rips and holes, held up on one leg by a cheap garter, the other slipping half way down the ruddy expanse of her thigh. "You don't wanna be recognized and all, right?" She'd smirk somewhat with her last comment, glancing over her shoulder to see if he still followed.

Her steps away from him pulled him along, and he took up the space a few feet at her back. If it wasn't for the fact that she glanced behind her, she might have thought that he buggered off with how quiet he was. Every step was predatory, a panther in a man's guise. "Blindfold?" He paused a moment, and a smile formed across his lips, one that didn't quite reach the amber of his eyes. "Why would I _ever_ wish something like that," questioning with a morbid playfulness. Sliding the purse back into his pocket he continued following her with a quick glimpse taken of his surroundings.

For a girl that had seen many things, his teasing was lost on her as she turned and examined the emptied alley way quickly, reaching out then and tugging him into the security of the doorway by the lapel of his cloak. Her breath, thick with absinthe and the evidence of her slackened hygiene, brushed along the exposed portion of his face as her hands, experienced in even the dark, went immediately to work.

"What's your fancy, Monsieur? Fast, long..." She drew our her words with coy deliverance, "...all night, which would of course cost ya extra." As she spoke, her hands worked at the front of his slacks, her breast pressed hard to the wall of his tensed chest as she grinned in the dark. Even in the closeness of this proximity the outline of his mask had yet to expose itself and though she found it odd he hadn't removed his fedora. Nevertheless, she continued on as she awaited his answer.

He kept his head back for that very reason; so she wouldn't be able to get a good look at his face. That and her breath left something to be desired. Like a good swig of cleanser placed into that leering grin of hers. The rake of a shudder that coursed over him was hardly from desire, but pure, unadulterated disgust when she instantly seized the front of his slacks, a motion that he stopped with his hands against her wrists. Pulling her fingers away from the loosened clasp, he brought them upward. He didn't doubt that there were those who enjoyed pinning her hands above her head, and she'd probably think nothing of it. Indeed, many of the men before had favored the upper hand of their natural born aggression, and many of the scars on her slender body proved it true.

"I am curious, Mademoiselle… Do you attempt to attract the attention of _all _kinds?" Bringing a questioning tone into his voice, he crossed her wrists, but only set one hand to the slender limbs to hold them at bay. Though thin and long, his musician's fingers held an undeniable strength.

"What's the ..." She gave up a weakened protest, though her darkened expression hinted at her obvious amusement. She pressed into him ardently with a grin, absorbing his question and responding in jest, "A client's a client, Monsieur. I dare say they're all the same to me." She lifted her shoulders in a shrug as if to reaffirm her inability to be shocked by the lot of men that she'd serviced.

_Ignore it.._ Instead of focusing upon the better parts of her body pressed so close to his own, he focused on the worst. The woman was probably a walking contamination, still holding the semen from the last man that had enjoyed her writhing and false cries of passion. That thought alone was enough to cause his lip to curl.

"Oh, really?" One brow lifted, and the fedora topped head tilted to the side in a decidedly feral manner. "And dareI say that eventually one face becomes another after some time?" Foreboding, those words, even as he moved that stationary hand, raising it to the very hat she was quizzical about. He pulled his head back further, as if sensing the shadows that would keep his face concealed even after he slid the fedora off of his head. It was tucked beneath the cape and under the press of an arm. "That they become all alike?"

She was toying now with her lips, snapping at him playfully as he spoke and growled under her breath. _Bloke's stallin'.._ She sensed a passion in this one and strived to play along, or to at least tempt his desire forward. For now however, he seemed to be all talk and thus her cajoling growls continued before his question struck an unusual chord within her.

"I suppose you could be right. If I really paid much attention to half the men I've bedded, I'd be running into them all around town." She huffed out a sort of laugh that puffed hot air into his face, and she felt his shift yet made no move to try and see his face. After all, like he said, they all were essentially alike. "What's with the questions, precious?" In the dark, her eyes narrowed, and if she were to be paid simply for understanding and sharing time, she would have surely left this one to the streets.

"Curiosity." Shifting the pinning hand his fingers curled tighter against her wrists, holding them securely against the rough surface of the doorway's sill that lay behind her. He had hoped for something different, but this would have to do. His fingers hovered a moment along the porcelain, and closing his eyes he left the fingertips to linger. She wanted him, so be it. She would have all of him. Every _ugly_ detail. Then he would see if she still wished to be paid for anything beyond understanding and sharing time.

That hesitation he had was completely dashed away as he pulled the mask up and off, then he leaned close to her so that now it was she that felt his breath against her skin as that horror lay before her. A nightmare given flesh, and even most of that was gone; perfection's absolute opposite. He was very prepared for her to scream. "Do you still believe all faces are alike? Tell me, _lover_, do you want me now?" It was strange, how his voice could be calm, yet at the same time betray the boiling ferocity that lay just below the surface.

She moved to again snap in that playful manner with a growl and a grin, writhing against his form as if to tantalize him from speech. However, the sudden exposure of the horrific oddity was certainly _not _the reaction she had in mind. A sweeping gesture of aggression and unreleased passion perhaps, but not this … this nightmare in the living flesh.

Her expression instantly contorted from that of impish seduction to twisted and terrified fear, her mouth gaping like a fish landed upon dry soil, robbed of its natural habitat, eyes wide and chest heaving. At last, that piercing scream rang out, breaking into the dawn as she struggled against his grip, turning her face away from the image of his distorted face. A slew of obscenities trailed this exposure, her hands balling into fists as she fought with all of her weakened might to escape the clutches of Death Himself. "DEAR _GOD_! What the fucking hell are you! LEMME GO!"

It took all the willpower he had to keep from snapping her neck at that first scream. In his life time had he ever harmed a woman? Never. His restraint with them was much stronger than it was with men. They were weaker than him, even a good number of men were weaker than he, and wouldn't stand a chance with whatever he might dish out. Any further words were cut off as he set his hand over her mouth, the edge of the mask grazing against the line of her jaw. Her wrists and head were pressed firmly against the sill. "I thought not," was dryly spoken with the faintest snarl in his words. He lingered in that press a bit longer than he liked, a flicker of thoughts crossing his mind in an instant, and he swept away from her in disgust. The disgust was not with her this time, but with _himself_.

Just as smoothly as he had taken off the mask it had been replaced, along with the fedora. She might not have noticed it at the time, but that very patch he had flashed her earlier was tucked into her loosened bodice. The inadvertent brush of his fingers against a breast when he pressed the velvet there was what caused further images to flash into his mind. Images of her; beneath him, screaming still... That long stride was at a quicker pace now. He wanted to get away from that scream that echoed within his ears, the sound of her haggard coughing once the swelled screams had choked her, nor the sound of her feet striking the cobbles as she retreated from the darkened doorway, stumbling into the lit streets in the direction opposite of what he was taking.

He should have left it alone. Should have simply gone his way without the need to taunt the woman. He kept his travel swift, avoiding any other lingering harlots as well as street goers. He didn't want to chance crossing another person, not now.


	11. Chapter 11

With his mind elsewhere, it was surprising that he managed to get back to his secreted entrance, and within the comforting warmth of the corridors. Warm...compared to the outside chill that sank to his bones. Such a rapid switching and shifting of emotions. Pity,.. to pain,.. to anger.., and finally to immense sadness. There were none around when he sank to his knees, all the strength that was in his form disappearing from him, as if it had been an illusion, one that further cracked with the rough hitches of his shoulders.

How long he remained there in the darkness, his hands pressed against his face, he didn't know, but when he worked himself to a stand, his throat was raw and it hurt to swallow. He had another decision to make as he wandered through the winding passage; do what he had first intended and find the Madame, who should have been at the opera house by now, or just go home to his solitude. Strengthening his resolve, he decided to seek out the woman. Perhaps speaking to her concerning his newly found interest would bring some needed calm.

Taking the corridor that led to her office, he listened near the hidden door, ensuring that none were there before he pressed it open and stepped inside. The opening was close to a shadowed corner, and he would wait there, ready to slip back into his labyrinth should any besides Giry arrive.

Madame Giry had indeed arrived at the same time she had every morning, promptly. Her daughter would come much later, when the sun was high and the other girls had arrived, ready to dance in their taffeta and overeager natures. For now, Giry opted to savor the silence as she made her rounds, inspecting the boxes she ushered. The week before a gala was a busy and hectic time for the House.

As she rounded the corner towards her office, using her cane to balance her step, she shuffled in the pocket of her dark skirt for the key. Granted entrance, she closed the door behind her and promptly made for her desk, half expecting to find there a parchment with blood red ink, courtesy of the Opera Ghost she had so long consorted with.

There was no note this time, of course. Not when she had the writer within her office, silent and still. His thoughts had drifted off again, lurking back to the streets, and beyond...beyond that time to his past. Like ripples in a pond, no matter how far one event was from another, the result was always the same. Unfortunately, his ripples didn't become weaker with each cresting.

Raising his eyes, he noticed that Giry was there. He loosely and comfortably folded his arms over his stomach as he exhaled a languid breath, getting rid of the pain that might have lingered in his voice. "I bid you good morning, Madame Giry. And it is indeed a pleasure to speak with you again." No throwing of his words. She knew where he was and that he'd be standing there when she turned around.

Startled a bit by the manner in which he had made himself known, Giry turned to find him standing in the far corner of her little office, full flesh and blood and the low region of his mask exposed beneath the dip of that trademark fedora. She gave a deep curtsy, her head bowed as she gave a rich and genuinely welcoming reception. "Monsieur, it is always a pleasure to speak with you. I imagine you've come in regards to your box for the gala this Friday?" She lifted quite gracefully for a woman of her age, gathering her cane and moving to stand behind her desk to observe him. Her formality was one that was hardly desired in their business ventures, he the provider of her little Meg's regal future and for now the silent source of her induction into the ballet itself. It was by way of his gratitude towards her that she was indebted to him and thus the airs of servitude.

The fedora tipped down slightly with the dropping of his chin, then rose again, completing the nod. "Forgive me if I startled you, Madame. But.. .Friday?" There was an opera Friday? Surely she wasn't speaking of _Hannibal_. They weren't ready. _Christine_ wasn't ready! Stepping away from the wall, a skeleton key that he had drawn from a hidden pocket in his cape was slid into the lock of her door and slowly twisted. Ominous was the click that came, but there was nothing betraying danger within his movements. He only preferred privacy, and it was to ensure that no one walked in. Leaving the key in the lock he turned his attention back to her.

"Yes, Friday. Monsieur Leferve is holding a grand gala for the new managers, Monsieur Andre and Monsieur Firmin. It is a showcase for this season.." And no doubt a showcase for La Carlotta's insipid arrogance and dying-cow voice, God help the two unfortunate men. Giry had glanced up to him from the various papers that littered her desk, half tempted to question him about the note he'd sent to her concerning Christine Daae. She held her tongue instead, shuffling through the papers and stacking them accordingly; anything to hold back the persistent questions she had to put to him about the chorus girl and his sudden interest.

Managing to refrain from releasing a breath of relief, he nodded once, slowly. "Yes. I wish for the box to remain open, as usual. I believe I would like to see who these new managers are." He disliked the idea of going through another set of managers, but what had to be done would be done. They would get the same warnings about his salary and leaving his box open for his use only. He didn't want anyone accidentally finding out that the northern pillar was hollow. That would lead them into the hidden corridors, and maybe eventually into his own lair. Or the traps that surrounded it. He didn't want to be responsible for them.

Stepping away from the wall, he approached her, standing across from her on the other side of the desk. There was sometimes no beating around the bush with him. "What do you know of this Christine Daae?" he questioned bluntly.

At his mention of the managers, she felt compelled to keep him informed of all happenings he might have somehow been unaware of. However, with his swift mention of Christine, she faltered and lifted her gaze to him questioningly. Nevertheless, she answered with great composure and ease. "She came to us fresh from the Conservatoire, having graduated near the bottom of her class. She was only admitted by Monsieur Lefevre because of a favorable standing with the child's caretaker, Mademoiselle Valerius. According to the charitable old woman, Christine lost her mother not even a day into her sixth year. She lost her father a month into her training at the Conservatoire."

She paused, studying his masked face for a reaction before she continued. "She is otherwise a quiet and, I even dare say, quixotic girl. However, her performance in rehearsal yesterday took me by surprise." She again met his gaze, her brows lifting as if to silently question You wouldn't happen to know anything of that, would you?'

_Later_, he agreed. Later he would find out what else he needed to know about the happenings that had been going on. But for now it was obvious where his interests lay. It wasn't the first time he had asked questions about someone, but never did he seek an audience like he had with this young chorus girl. Breathtakingly tall compared to the diminutive woman, his chin tilted down subtly when she paused and took to studying the visage that was half concealed in shadow and mask. There was little to no reaction, as he dared not show anymore than he had already. But now he wagered a guess on why the passion has been stripped from that beautiful voice.

Glancing away from her, he turned his attention to the pages that lay upon her table. Her accusing look wasn't lost on him, he simply made it seem like he was oblivious with the way he straightened up a few parchments with a deft movement of fingers. "Yes, I suppose it would have… hm? It is nice to see at least one upon the line begin to straighten up. Two, if little Meg can remove her head from the clouds." His voice wasn't harsh, but light and even a bit playful. They both knew that Meg could be quite imaginative.

Indeed. A smile had filtered across her aged expression, the curt gesture of her nod one that silently shared an opinion with the Opera Ghost that now stood before her. She studied his demeanor with mild interest, smoothing out the dark fabric of her gown as she thought back idly to Christine's performance in the rehearsal hours before, and even to her daughter's rambling account of the event.

"She certainly shows signs of untapped potential. Little Christine, of course. My Meg, however…" Breathy laughter rumbled from within, her head shaking about slightly before she continued. "If she cared for her lessons and instruction half as much as she did for her gossip, we wouldn't need to have a care in the world." With this aside, the woman was tempted to press on in regards to his interest in Daae, though perhaps from experience, she held her tongue. One must never grant too much information unless it was requested, especially with the Phantom.

Once the papers were straightened, he brought his arm back, sliding it beneath the drape of the cloth, then turning his head he rested his gaze upon her once more. "That would be a feat, would it not? To stuff Meg's ears and silence that wagging tongue. She has not disappointed me too greatly, though." A good thing, indeed. He wouldn't harm the girl, but even in his respect for the Madame, they both knew that having one that didn't respond well to instruction didn't need to be in the ballet.

"What else can you tell me of the girl, Christine?" Though he tried to figure out different ways to word the question, so his interest wouldn't be so glaringly obvious, it came out bluntly anyway. There were times when he was unfalteringly articulate, but lately.. he found that he was acting before thinking. That didn't bode well, nor did it make him comfortable, these slips of usually iron strong restraints.

"Meg speaks often of her and with each accounting, her impression of Christine seems to be one of a very virtuous and sweet child. She's often invited Christine to the lounge but she usually refuses, which is good. If I could teach little Meg that same resolve and keep her from gallivanting around with La Sorelli, I'd surely retire to a furnished country home." Again, the lift of her eyes to the Heavens at the understandable troubles she had with her own daughter. However, he wasn't asking of Meg, was he?

She continued on, digging deeply into each brief encounter she'd had with the girl outside of rehearsal, remembering what Meg had told her. "Her father taught her to sing and even to dance a bit. Christine speaks of him often to Meg. Excellent on the violin, he was." Her brow knitted as she remembered one last detail and offered it sort of half heartedly, hardly seeing any importance in it. "Another thing – apparently at his death, he promised to send her an angel from Heaven." She'd hardly give any credibility to that mundane fact and to display her disinterest, she returned her attentions to the papers she held in her hand.

As she spoke, he listened quietly, watching her carefully for his own reasons. Daae, and the violin. "Was he not the famous player who visited here? The Swedish one?" With her gaze upon the papers, she failed to see the faintest raise of brow he gave at the information she gave concerning the angel. Now he had to truly wonder… Was he right in calling himself her angel? Was he playing into the stories that an old and perhaps senile, man told his daughter upon his death bed? It was an innocent statement, and she took it well. If she had believed him to be a simple ghost or a man, he doubted that her voice would be changed as it had now. He would keep up the facade, for as long as possible. But, that meant she could never see him. Ever. Hiding in shadows was something that he had become used to, looked forward to. Away from prying eyes. But for some unspoken reason, a flicker of disappointment crossed him. _Never be seen. _He shook it off, his posture straightening.

Her eyes still downcast, she paused in her silent study of the letters to ponder on his questions for a moment. "Yes, I believe so." Daae, his daughter admitted into the corps de ballet; it made sense. She returned to her reading, silent for a few brief moments before she lifted her head and studied him. "If you do not mind my asking, what is your interest in this girl?" The instant she asked, she wished she'd simply left this question for her own examination. She prepared for whatever would follow, but it was quite strange indeed that he showed such an interest in this chorus girl, hardly a stunning beauty – more of a charming _pretty girl _– and only recently expressing signs of tangible, untapped talent.

The nod was slight, barely perceptible and he had begun to think of another series of questions to lead away from the young woman when she asked _that_ particular question. Though it was an innocent question, his jaw set firmly and turning to her, his voice dropped dangerously low again.. "Am I not allowed to be curious as to a person? A woman? Or must I live _completely _in the dark, Madame?" She blanched as if slapped by the brutality in his voice, but accustomed to his swift changes in demeanor, she again retained that polished, unscathed expression as he continued; dragging in a languid breath, the rougher tone was smoothed out to something a lot more cordial. "I..simply see potential. Worry not. I do not care to expose myself to her and frighten the child. As it is, she simply believes me to be a ghost, playing well into the gossip little Meg gives." A bit of a lie, but he was a master in deception not only with illusions but words. The little white lie was undetectable.

She left his answer as it was, not venturing to further question his reasoning. She wished to keep her job, did she not? Even, dare she say, her head? Of course, and so she pressed on to another topic of discussion as swiftly as she had pressed on from her initial summary of the young Daae. "With the new management, I think you'll be quite pleased. Monsieur Firmin himself is a composer, mostly chamber piano pieces and that sort. However, Monsieur Andre is quite foreign to music and is more inclined to the business of scrap metal. He was only offered the job because of his involvement in the Academy." She lifted her brows in a sort of And we know how that story goes manner, her movement behind the desk as she faced him languid and comfortable.

She did well in distracting him toward other matters, and he seemed interested in her comments about the new managers. The sooner he learned of them, the better off he would be. "I trust you will inform them of my wishes? My salary and Box Five?" One of them knew nothing about music. Wonderful. He'd be quite disappointed if the man tried to place a hand upon the operas and their scores. An eye would be kept upon this Monsieur Andre , definitely. "I would be most disappointed if they decided to ignore your heeding and sell the box." A bit of a frown creased his brow, but it was smoothed over when he rolled his shoulders in a shrug, as if the matter didn't bother him in the least. If need be, he'd take care of the warnings himself. They worked quite well with the current manager. Unfortunate that his nerves couldn't seem to take to the ghostly presence.

She bowed her head quickly, aware of his wishes. "Of course." Aware of his wishes, however, wary of the managers' responses to those wishes. Monsieur Firmin struck her as a short tempered man, accustomed to control and strict dictation of all under his charge and Monsieur Andre almost seemed like his whipping boy – he had the very physical traits of a lapdog who often favored bucking against the leash his partner held him with to witness its results.

Giry, was hardly an imaginative and flighty woman, though her child was. She would indeed inform her new employers of the elusive Opera Ghost and his desires, and perhaps cajole from them any doubts or defiance. She would include with the Phantom's resume a detailed summary of the many intelligent tips he'd given to the Opera in the past. "I will inform them as soon as possible. They're supposed arriving around noon for the tour. If not today, then definitely Friday." That event itself promised to be a stressful time for the dance instructor; she'd informed each member of the troupe and even some of the dancers whose ignorant disobedience had taught them to fear the instructor, that each were to be on exceptionally good behavior. Or else. "Is there anything else I can be of service for?"

This news brought a faint drawing down of his brows. _Today_? Was he going to be rested enough to lurk around the halls? Then again, he was quite awake at this moment. The few hours he slept on the other side of Christine's mirror had proven to be helpful. That should last him for the rest of the day, if not tomorrow as well. He was his body's worst enemy. He fell to silence at her final question and he gave thought to anything else he might have needed to speak to her about. "Mm...no. Nothing further at the time. Thank you for your company, Madame." Much more polite now, than how he had briefly spoken to her, he gave a slight bow; just a gentle dipping of his chin accompanied by the light touch-tipping of fedora's edge. Turning around with a sweeping gesture of his cloak, he made his way back to the slotted opening in the wall without further word.

There had been a reason why he kept playing with those papers, something she'd notice when she picked them up and the silvered sheen of a hundred franc coin free upon the cherry wood desk. He wouldn't allow her to deny the payment for the upkeep of his box as well as keeping him informed of matters. Paying her was the least that he could do.

The brush of latch slid the wall back into place, seamlessly, and in his usual enveloping silence he traveled the corridors five stories below, to his lair. He had plenty of thinking to do, and none of it had to do with his score. Another day, another rehearsal, and he looked forward to seeing the young woman when he returned to the surface later.


	12. Chapter 12

The routine of the next several days had flown by for Christine. Upon awakening, she would ready herself and take a carriage to the Opera House as the other girls surely did from their respective homes. From the hour of nine and on she busied herself with costume fittings and blocking rehearsals, each task taken with equanimity towards the anticipation of her _real _rehearsal later in the evening.

The days of the chorus girls were always like this; dressings, simple luncheons in the lounge where often times the young and handsome patrons came to flirt and gossip, before it was back to the endless drills of Madame Giry and Monsieur Reyer. However, around noon of Friday the pace had quickened in the Opera House. The arrival of the two men had everyone astoundingly well behaved. Even the stage hands kept their perverse leering at the line girls to a mulled innuendo. They weren't described as nothing more than friends – rich friends – with interest in the opera. Leferve wanted to see how they would be taken before he exposed them for what they were to be; the new managers.

The days seemed to drag on for far too long to him. Minutes were hours, and hours seemed like centuries. That day, though, he made his journey to the surface, studying the two of them and smirking at how the screeching parrot tried to remain at the coat tails of these unknown men Leferve seemed to have taken interest with – after all, if he was speaking to someone, they _must _be important. Instead of going back down to wait for it all to be over, he suffered himself through the tour. The gala was uneventful – at least in his opinion regardless of the excitement drudged up by others. It was more for the prestige of the opera house and their 'amazing diva' than for the duo, if they even went. Nevertheless, Carlotta was more than thrilled to sing for rich patrons.

Darkness had again slipped over the city and the Opera itself, and while the performers that had been selected to perform in the gala were given the opportunity to stay behind and rehearse, none of them did. That included her 'majesty', La Carlotta, who had flitted about all day before the view of the men, slipping nonchalantly into the same rooms they happened to occupy just to get more information about them. Nonchalantly, indeed. How could someone who preferred to wear bright colors be over looked? It was impossible with Carlotta. After all, that was the very reason she wore such gaudy colors. To be seen. But that was all at an end now, and with the sweet night came its paramour, enveloping silence, to settle upon the House. Christine sat alone in her dressing room, free of her rehearsal garments, traded for an ivory gown.

While waiting for the house to clear, he rested within his box, settling both portfolio and violin case off to his side. Silence settled and still he waited, ignoring that need to go to her room. He could wait. He would wait. Or _try _to. The doubled click of clasps allowed him to lift the top and drawing the instrument from the blood red velvet, he tucked the curve of wood and cushion beneath his chin. Moments later, the first slow strains of the violin were heard, echoing through the excellent acoustics, and flowing in a haunting melody through the halls. _Beckoning_.

Her head was low at the time, her gaze fixed upon her palms as she shifted them lazily together. Hazel eyes were moist as if tears threatened to spill whence her thoughts had found somehow the words and tender care of her father's memory. His voice, his music, his impassioned art that he tried so hard to teach her and how so grievously she'd lost it upon his death. Lost it, and again retrieved its inspiring sensation in her soul with the arrival of the promised Angel of Music. Still, for this Angel, where adoration and gratitude only should have been felt, further emotions rang true in her innocent heart.

Was it love, this anticipation of his voice? The dire need for his guidance and approval, as strong as the need for water in an endless desert of life? How simpering and childish she felt, feeling for a mere Voice the emotions she'd so long ago conjured for a boy by the sea. With these thoughts heavy upon her mind, she had moved to inspect her reflection when suddenly, from afar, came the first of many beautifully crafted notes from a solitary violin.

Christine perked, sat straight and listened. Then moved at last, as if enthralled, towards the door. The haunting melody stirred life into her weary limbs, expelled all thoughts that burdened her heart with its lifting cries of an all too familiar resonance. She moved into the abandoned hall, straight for the source of the sound, which seemed to be the auditorium. Her father, resurrected? Or the Angel of Music, the divine messenger between worlds that graced her with his preternatural talent?

It was as if he could sense her approaching, but in truth, he was pulling himself deeper into the music, letting the strings weep where he couldn't shed tears. Laugh when the mere thought of the gesture brought a pain to his cheeks. Each pass of the catgut and horse hair bow expressed all that he couldn't verbally, or emotionally. It was a good thing that the Madame had left, for she would have either been brought to tears, or disturbed by the depth in which he played, apparently for this girl that had caught his interest.

One that was on his mind _still_.

She wasn't foreign to pain, and because of this he believed that they had a bit of a connection, knowing that life wasn't as bright and sunny as some seemed to make it. People died, they left the lives of others, often without warning, or a final goodbye. This wasn't a piece that any had heard before, taken straight from the notes that passed over his mind's eye. Musical genius at work; it was a song that was never to meet paper.

Her movements were slow and controlled, her entire form taken by the melody as she entered the stage from far right and moved to it's center, her eyes uplifted to simple space as she listened. That moisture that rested in her wide and beautiful eyes transpired into salt tears, one falling from her eye and leaving it's tiny stream upon her powdered cheek. It was if her father was playing that impromptu melody, luring her out from the grief she had so passionately mourned him with, reassuring her with the oft heartbreaking and sometimes even amiable tune that life, _her _life, was to remain in it's constant sway despite her desire for its change, or even ... its end. That tear solidified her broken heart though enthralled and captured by the sadness of the lone instrument, she noticed it not as more pursued. Her frame trembled with it's melancholy swell, each mirroring her enduring silence of repressed pain and loneliness.

He was talented with illusions, but he hadn't mastered the art of throwing the 'voice' of an instrument. Not yet. One reason why he chose to play within this room instead of next to her mirror. She might have been able to pin point where the sound was coming from. Slowly he cracked open his eyes, his gaze dropping down from his paid for box to the lone figure upon the stage, half wrapped in shadows. He didn't want to cease playing just yet, not when she was feeling the music so deeply. Feeling _him _within each note. Without so much as a pause or parting, the song would turn toward something more familiar, the first few notes of the aria he had told her to practice. And it would continue, accompanied by the gentle whisper of words near her ear. "Sing for me."

It was if those painted cherubs that circled high above the luminous chandelier had opened a portal to the Heavens, releasing her fathers spirit for one last song, one last embrace of gentle and free flowing music. At the melody's change, perhaps it was then she was aware of her Angel's presence. That same hot crawl of her skin seemed to intensify now with the words he uttered at her ear, and despite her tears, despite her sudden desire to flee to that graveyard in Perros and throw herself down before the tomb of her beloved Papa and beg entrance into the Beyond, she obliged to his request.

She sang out with his accompaniment, and though the song was written as an interlude to parted lovers, she sang now with the drive of her grief and heartbreak to fuel it's passion. Her voice was strong, stronger than before because of it's expanding wings and the depths with which she reached to flame and encourage the flight. In the dark her voice resounded with that single violin to nudge her own, the void of her emptiness filled as she sang out her heart to the Angel of Music, and to her father.

She had it. There was no denying it now. She had it, she felt exactly what he told her. It was grief, he knew. He had realized that the sound of the violin would evoke those emotions when she first heard it played by his hand, and as much as he knew it would hurt, it would also open the doors to the passion she needed to feel within the song, within her own singing. Even within her heart, regardless of it breaking.

He listened carefully to her voice, in case unshed tears and a knotted throat might cause her words to become strained. He would have her stop then, for trying to sing when crying would harm more than help. It was more than that lone reason though. Unconsciously – or perhaps even knowingly – he listened for it brought an undeniable sense of bliss. Adjusting the position of his chin he rested back within the velvet lining of the chair, melting from his stiff shouldered position to one of relaxation.

With each word, the startling slew of memories assaulted her. Tears flowed easily now, her whole form wracked with sobs that thickened her usually clear quality voice. She heard him again then; "That is enough." She stopped abruptly as told, and as if the song had been her only means of strength to stand, she sank weakly to her knees on the stage before him. Lithe limbs were lost in the sea of fabric at her waist, her slender upper proportion leant forward as she covered her face with her hands.

It had not been the weeks or months of repressed sadness that now surfaced, but rather years that had riddled her soul and broken her spirit of all pleasures. The sun was never again to provide the same warmth as it had before, genuine laughter never again to overtake her at the simple joys of a child such as she. And he had found it necessary to teach her the passionate way in which she would sing by evoking emotions she'd best left to secret pain and solitude. She hardly hated him for it, too weakened by the circumstances to fight as she granted a muffled apology through trembling hands. "Forgive me. When I heard you playing, I ... I fancied you my father, granted back to me from death itself."

The notes continued for a bit longer after she brought her voice to a stand still, and lowering the violin he replaced it to the case, then slowly closed the lid. Carefully attaching the clasps he spoke to muffle their gentle clicks. "No need for apology. I understand." For a moment he felt a pang of guilt, that he would stir up such foul memories. He didn't like it when his scabs were picked at, pouring forth things he had thought were better to leave forgotten. He was sure that this moment could help her. Throwing wider the doors he had already cracked.

He knew not of how much she had been repressing behind the plastic smiles, but by the racking sobs it gave him a bit of a clue. Brief was the thought of him breaking his word to the Madame to comfort her, but he knew he couldn't stand the look that would cross her face. The terror.. Pressing open the hollow of the pillar the case was rested inside before he began to make his descent. If he couldn't reveal himself, he could get closer.

Childish sniffles had long fled from her sobs, the grief unexpressed coming now without control as she knelt their on the stage. She hid behind her hands, masking from her eyes the thoughts of better days. When she wasn't so alone. She was left in silence for a long time, she realized, but contented herself to know that it was her Angel's sensitivity to her father's death – not knowing that it really was because of his change in position.

It was in that silence that she longed for comfort, the warmth of another touch or an embrace of a friend to ease the tidal wave of pain that had befallen her. After those moments when all that rested upon her ears was the hiccups of her own sobs, she had calmed herself somewhat to straighten, wiping at her eyes with the handkerchief tucked into the sleeve of her gown.

Coming to the lowest floor, and stepping through the length of hidden corridor, he pressed gently against the surface of a wall's backing, sliding the portion out of place so he'd be able to step behind a thick, velvet curtain. Lowering the case to the wood gently, he settled it upon its side. Listening silently to her sniffles as they drifted toward quieter sounds, he glanced to the floor first, then to the curtain he stood near. She was still a good distance from him, but oh so close. It was almost torture.

"He is with you, always." He wasn't one to attempt to comfort someone through words. He never received the same, not even when someone so dear died. One of which was but an animal, but she was the only true friend he had ever found. One that never flinched back because of what he looked like – it was more from him tugging on her ears when he was but a babe. "If you would like, you could practice tomorrow." He hoped not, but he didn't want her to continue feeling terrible, in thus perhaps lose that feeling she had experienced. At the same time.. the practice could have it linger, changing and twisting for the better. He hated these types of double edged decisions.

She shut her eyes against the tears, nodding her approval as he spoke. Her father's presence with her was hardly as the Voice's was. It was never pronounced, but always a thought or a whim of a remark she could hear him saying in her mind, guiding her along the course of her young life with guidance from above.

Something in Christine sensed her Angel near and she sighed, almost as if she'd sank into the embrace of his words and wrapped her slender limbs around their solace. More than anything, she longed for release. A true, final release from her heartbreak. She wanted some semblance of living again and she knew that this would not come but by the guidance and protection of her promised master. She again dabbed at the tears, drawing in a long breath. "I'll practice tonight." To face a night of unrest and more tears shed seemed much too painful for Christine and perhaps that is why she decided to linger on for her lesson.

Pleased by her determination he nodded, then with an almost playful smile, one that reached his voice, he abruptly snapped. "Good! Stand up. Straighten. Shoulders back. Head high. Come now, child. The huddled crying is not supposed to come until the end of Act Three. Face your audience and become Elissa." Gentle was his chuckle, easily missed if she had not been listening closely enough. There was no audience there for now, but there will be.

The managers came to mind at that moment.

As far as he knew they might not have heard Carlotta yet. Perhaps these new men could be helpful in getting his Christine upon the stage, as well as become the new Prima Donna of the opera house. It was a chance, one he was willing to take. Taking a glimpse around the curtain, ensuring that she was looking out, he stepped away from the case and the heavy cloth alike. Stepping quietly across the stage, he approached her from behind, stopping a score of feet.

The Opera House decidedly deserted, she'd do as he'd instructed, astounded by his cheerfulness. Straightened shoulders, head lifted high, she faced her audience as commanded and awaited his next instruction, her eyes heavy and red from the pain split but a new rejuvenation settled in their depths with his presence. If her father were truly dead and gone, she could derive from the Angel of Music a new hope of the glory her dear Papa had sworn to her so long ago. She tucked the kerchief into the fold of ruffles at her gown's sleeve quickly, clearing her throat and becoming every bit the pupil and devotee.

She was going to need something to drink, but he didn't want to send her out within those hallways, only for her to cross Joseph again. Truth be told, he didn't know if the stage hand was still around. After that scare from before, he might have made it a habit to leave the House after most of the others. Learn as one goes, next time he would ensure he had water, or perhaps some tea to assist with keeping her throat relaxed. There was something else she needed.

"Descend the stage. Upon the first row of seats, the middle one, you will find the score of _Hannibal_ so you might learn and practice. It would not do well if all you know are the chorus lines." Glancing to the stairs he pressed his lips together in thought, then stepped back away from her, behind the curtain, and seeking out the dial needed, it was turned, bringing a bit of glow to the foot lights as every other one flickered on. A greater chance of being seen, but he was secure in the thought that she would do exactly as he said, and not go snooping. He didn't want her to end up hurting herself by stumbling down the darkened stairs.

Edging to the far end of the stage and descending the stairs there, she traveled past the orchestra pit, and into the audience itself. The heavy fabric of her gown shuffled softly against the velvet carpet, a regal shade of red that matched the tapestry of the chairs with their polished gold fixtures. Indeed, as he had said she found the bound _Hannibal _script. Picking it up, she immediately turned to approach the stage when the softened glow of the footlights assaulted her still sensitive eyes. Their eerie glow illuminated only the front most part of downstage, the rest of the expanse thickened by shadow. She again climbed the stairs, opening the script and scanning idly over the first few lines of the production. She did this without question, awaiting his next instruction.


	13. Chapter 13

It came swiftly enough, when he heard her return to the stage. "When you have time tomorrow, study the pages. I will be taking you through the first act tomorrow. For practice. Tonight we shall do a bit more voice exercises." Fingers smoothed over the dial, and capturing it within his grasp he gave it another turn, though counter-clockwise. Again darkness fell over the stage, and he was once more completely comfortable.

The light.. a bane of his existence, he could never embrace it so willingly. Curling his fingers against the edge of the curtain he pressed it away slightly, looking toward her back. "Begin with the major scales. Slowly, and measure your breaths. You do not have a drink with you this evening to sooth your throat's burn."

Engulfed by darkness once more, Christine knelt slightly to place the script at her feet, the bound paper making barely over a rustle in the expanse of the auditorium. Though he wished to be invisible to her, she still behaved and followed his instruction as she would Giry or Reyer; tangible faces to see and to hear and to strive to bring a smile forth from. His faith that she would indeed perform in _Hannibal _was enough of a solid proof of his desire to teach for her and so she stood pliant to his every whim. The major scales were much easier to tackle and she began clearly and calmly, her voice lifting into each note gingerly as if unsure at first of her capability to sing for him tonight. Though, as she lifted herself into each key change, her confidence built and with it a greater desire to sing as Elissa as he promised.

How could Giry question his interest of this girl? Could she not see the avid potential that laid behind the docile appearance? The amount of what she could bring to the opera, to the very house she stood within? The woman hadn't become blind to such things, he knew she _had_ to see it. He had thought to have her pause when she first began and the notes weren't as powerful as before, but the more she went on, the better the tone was becoming. More felt and entwined with her soul.

"Good," he breathed gently when she'd come to the final note of the A scale. "Rest, and we will continue to the minor scale in a moment." Was he mistaken.. or was she now able to last longer without needing a break? Before, she could hardly get through the third scale without the vibrato becoming stronger and her projection weakening. Faintly he smiled to himself and eased from behind the curtain to retake his position several feet behind her, approaching with a slow, predatory prowl. He let his eyes trail over her slowly, curiously. Their meetings didn't have to only deal with music and her singing, did they? He wanted to know of her, beyond going to others, but didn't know how to initiate. Eventually he spoke again, "Have you questions of, or for, me, child?"

Letting out a breath she shifted uncomfortably on her sore feet. Dance lessons had proved to be thoroughly draining; they'd been instructed to began work in their costumes for the opening of _Hannibal. _The heavy belt of her skirt was certainly a task to consider when standing on pointes and extending a slender leg far behind her, as well as the tightly fitted top of her piece. And the Prima Donna thought she had it bad, hah!

Christine made no move to seek him as she had the mind to do before but instead showed her vague curiosity of his question with the knit of her brows. The corners of her mouth lifted in a quizzical smirk, and she thought on this for a moment before she responded. What could one ask an Angel? His name, perhaps? She had tried in vain before to garner that response but instead quailed the urge this time, moving on to more options. Only, she found none. She'd drawn a blank and perhaps it was that by this lack of anything mundane to question she attempted again. "Your name? Surely angel's have names."

His mouth gave a similar wry cant of a smirk as she asked him that question again, and for a moment he thought to expose to her his name. He had to give that deep contemplation, even with something so simple. Taking his gaze from its thoughtful pose to the floor, he lifted his eyes to rest upon her form. "Erik," he finally said, slowly. Erik and it's meaning of 'powerful' suited him well. If it wasn't for the fact that the individual was born thirty years after him, he would have believed that his mother named him after Merrick, the 'Elephant Man.' That, too, would have been fitting. "You are persistent." Though it was only the second time she asked, it was the fact that she decided to do so anyway that made him say those very words.

With his name came an uncontrollable smile that spread from almost ear to ear. Such a ... divine name. She felt sure if she were to say it, it would roll from her tongue with the grace of her song, touching and stirring in her compassion and adoration. She decided to give it a try, speaking out a gingerly executed "Erik". And with grace it did come, as if she'd felt all along that was his name, it's familiarity striving to continue on. A name that only the Angel of Music could have, and she would use it only in his presence to signify the desire she held for their companionship.

At his comment she laughed softly, her cheeks flushed a deep shade of red as if embarrassed because of the fact. She was tempted to venture even further by asking his age but refrained, assured by the maturity in his voice and the authority he undoubtedly held over her. So, in honest fashion, she'd return the favor with her own question. "And do you have any questions to put to me, Erik?"

Though it was the most obvious and instinctual thing to do, he hadn't expected her to repeat his name, and if his attention wasn't upon her before, it definitely was now. To think, all it would do was for her to speak that single name for the world to drop away. The way it sounded upon her tongue, greater than all the arias in the world. That sole, simple word. Drawing closer, breaking down the distance between them with steady steps, he paused again. _So many, but none of which you could ever answer._ He closed his eyes against that thought, and after a silent exhale he shook his head slowly, despite the fact that she wouldn't see it.

"Not at this time, unfortunately. But I will be sure to ask them of you when they come." Folding his arms loosely at his stomach his fingers curled along the jutting edge of an elbow as he unconsciously straightened. Only so many feet away from her and he was already tensing like a jungle cat ready to spring. He didn't feel any where this tense when the harlot was approaching, an odd thing, indeed. But not so much once he went over it. Everything he worked for with her might be gone once she realized that her angel was but a man. A man in the guise of a monster.

Her skin crawled with his undeniable presence; _he was near. _That alone was comfort from her earlier pain and satisfaction enough even when he hadn't a question to ask of her. She nodded, clasping her hands into the rest of her skirt, and released a gentle sigh. Another question struck her, one she would unfortunately be forced to rake over in her mind. The darkness? Why was he so reluctant to be seen – to be _touched_ ?

She reasoned it to be a sheer case of intangibility, or perhaps as the seraphim were said to cover their face and feet in the presence of God, she too would be forced into the blind world simply because his majesty was much too great to comprehend with the sense of sight? Yes, that surely was it! That was what her heart rationalized, anyway. Her mind was more reluctant to be deceived by such foolish thoughts and so she continued these structured thoughts in silence. Her head drew canted to the side slightly, the mass of her loosened curls falling over her shoulder and down her back to display it's full length, her brows relaxed in her daze.

"What are your dreams, Christine?" So much for not having any questions for her. He welcomed the silence often, but at this moment, he wanted nothing more than to hear her voice. To hear her speak his name once more. Lifting a hand he pressed gloved fingertips against his brow, just below the ridge of fedora and the edge of mask, and pressed firmly with a slow kneading.

_Childish, utterly childish._ A teen fawning over its crush, for it to pay just one lick of attention. But he didn't desire her in such a fashion. He was her teacher, and she only his student. It was that want for conversation, that need to feel that he wasn't as alone as he believed. He was her protector, nothing more. It never will be more. He _didn't_ _want _more.

Raising his eyes he looked away from her to the carvings that were set about the large auditorium, ones that seemed to be grinning at this small plight of his. He scowled darkly, inwardly spitting a curse at one secretively smiling angel, and glowering he turned his attention to her; that minute bit of irritation subsiding all too quickly.

The question was certainly an odd one, and though she was more than willing to answer, she feared that her questions might provoke in him a sense of unease. In truth, her dreams of him came quite frequently now, and started innocently enough. A Voice that lulled her to sleep at night, so close to her ear and trained in her memory that she felt as if she still lingered awake in those wee hours. However, there were others ... indescribable reveries of unmentionable passion, recklessness and unforgettable pleasure. She had awakened from those dreams confused, bewildered by what began to become the frequent and unconscious exploration of the darker recesses of her mind, and of her heart. She mentioned none of these, of course.

"I dreamt of my father frequently after his death. I dreamt that he had returned to me in sleep and held my hand, assuring me that the angel he had promised would soon find me." She was reluctant to say that it was he, but the smile she gave in the dark deceived her. "Then, I began to dream of you." He rose a brow and tilted his head to the side. Realizing her unintentional slip, she quickly corrected as another flush of her cheeks signaled her embarrassment. "Your voice."

He had been closer to her before, so why did he hesitate now? He knew, deep down, why he didn't want to near. He wanted to touch, to be touched, and he _knew_ that he wouldn't be able to keep from reaching out to her. _Damn it all_, he growled inwardly, his fingers curling tautly at his sides. What was _with_ this young woman that troubled him so! "My voice..?" Another step forward; moth to a flame. "Tell me ... what did I say? Sing? You have me curious." It wasn't that he ignored the rest of what she said. That was packed away along with many other tidbits she might have mentioned, or he had heard over the short amount of time since he had first spoken to her.

She shivered inwardly, frozen to the spot and reluctant to move for fear the sensation of his eyes heavy upon her would flee. Goose bumps lifted over her arms, her knees weakening with each word he threw directly into her ears. And now he requested to know what he spoke of in her dreams? Oh, horror. Could she really tell him such ... such unspeakable things? He had sang to her many times in sleep, assuredly! But what of the times when he hadn't? Would she dare to utter the secretive fantasies of her innocent and still somehow passionate nature? Surely not.

She stammered for words, her skin flushed red. "You sang to me ... songs ..." In the dark, she closed her eyes tight and inwardly kicked herself. ".. songs my father would sing to me as I ventured into sleep." That much was true. "You spoke comfort to me when I rested uneasy, soothing my fears .. the warmth of your words was my blanket from the cold, my needed embrace." Though this was only partially true.

Was she..trembling? She didn't sense him close, did she? And think that he would harm her? No, no that just wouldn't do. But even as he let a subtle furrowing come to his brow, he couldn't take that step back. So close was he, all he had to do was lean forward to brush his fingers against her hair. He fell silent during and after her words, regarding the back of her head and what portion of her face he could see. It was right, the dreams that he would comfort her while she was uneasy. With his voice if he couldn't with the curl of his arms around her slender frame. "Any thing more," he questioned gently, his voice on the opposite side that he was actually on. Shifting his weight, he took a smooth step that would draw him a pace sideward. He just didn't trust himself to get any closer. It was as if her hair beckoned to his fingers to brush against and through.

So close now was he that she could swear some semblance of a heartbeat she could hear. Or perhaps it was her own that pounded loudly in her ears? She did not fear him but more so in this moment than ever desired him. Desired his embrace, the shelter of his arms from the pain endured. With his question, every instinct in her screamed a desperate _Yes, _though from her mouth came the struggled and uneasy "No."

A second step to the side, though where he had just come from. Antsy, he was fighting against all 'normal' instinct to be speaking directly to her instead of as some tossed voice and a standing presence a few feet away from her. A distance that was shortened again. His breath subtly held in fear that she might feel it against her skin or hair. Just as he had moved, her head canted ever so slightly as her eyes strained to see in that thick blanket of darkness. Darkness, with which she felt she'd forever be enamored with. Her voice lowered to a meek whisper, her statement barely audible had he not been in such close proximity. "Shall I ever see you, Erik?"

One hand lifted, and just out of her line of sight his fingers came to a hover near the line of her jaw, just below her ear. No transfer of warmth, his skin was often as cold as the lake he crossed to get here. No touch, but the threat was there. Until she had to ask _that_ question. He silently jerked back as if he had been burned by that inquiry, and again that flood of flickered images came to mind. Fear, screaming, horror. _Disgust_. "_No_," he said sharply, nearly snarling the word, then ever more gently he spoke: "You know not what you ask for. You cannot ..."

Another inward tremble overtook her with the sharpness of his words, her tension from the moment before loosening as he, unbeknownst to her, slipped away into shadow. She was almost desperate as she so foolishly pleaded with him. "I do! I want to look on the face of my teacher, my Angel." She had half a mind to search the darkness, and why shouldn't she? What had he to hide if he possessed a name, and a presence that so stirred and intoxicated her own? Her brow was creased with this desperation, her hands wrung together as she felt blinded by the darkness that enshrouded him and inevitably, her own mind, whenever she was with him.

The distance that he had been so reluctant to cross was now taken in reverse with an undeniable swiftness. He flinched when she spoke that word, that hated, cursed word, and drawing deeper into the shadows he curled the weight of the cape around him as if that would be a shield against her prying questions. Her demands of what he could never show her. "You cannot." He wouldn't say why, he couldn't say why. Though he had felt immense pain at that moment, he couldn't shatter the illusion she had of him. Of this great beautiful being that could cause pain to look upon. That image was the only place where he could be perfect in her eyes, and that though alone tore him apart. "Do not ask me of this, Christine. You cannot see. I cannot bare you to see."

She indeed knew not what she was asking but pleaded with him, needing the reassurance of his existence for fear that his guidance, the growing affection she held for him was all but a dream. A cruel, twisted dream that the Fates had conjured to taunt her poor, weakened heart. "What is it that you fear? _Me_? Surely not your little Christine, who sings for you, _only_ for you?" She lifted her chin to speak into the air, sure to it that wherever he was, he could understand her clearly, hear the desperation and the need for him within her voice, that golden voice that he had bestowed upon her.

_Yes, you. _But not how she would think. He just..couldn't bear to see her face after she saw his own. Just as he didn't trust to keep away from her moments ago, he didn't trust his voice, and so she was met with silence. He lingered still, the presence further away from her than before, lurking within the thicker depths of blackness where he was safe. Where she was safe.

Rubbing the bare side of his face slowly he released a breath as his eyes closed, then moments later they lifted, settling upon her form. Her persistence was admirable at times, but now wasn't one of them. Not when it came to the topic of seeing him, or his face. He should have gone with his first instinct of waiting behind her dressing room mirror, but like the fool he had become, he needed to have her here with him. Near.

"Erik?" The silence and the sudden cold had her suddenly concerned, fearful he had left her. For all she knew, he probably had. She felt alone now, detached from his presence and angered with herself for it. She lingered on in silence for those brief moments, reasoning that it was by her own doing she'd scared him away. And the more she thought of his promise to have her perform as Elissa, the more meaningless it had suddenly become in comparison to a world without her new friend and mentor. "Shall I leave you?" She spoke barely above a whisper, ashamed and suddenly exhausted whence released from the spell of his words and voice, the very lingering of his body near her own. It was undoubtably late and she wished not to repeat the exhaustion from last the previous night's lesson.

Over-reacting was something he had always been in the habit of doing. When he could only get true passion out through his music, his tide of emotions were quick to shift. He had other things to occupy his mind, his tinkering, painting and other forms of art, but they weren't enough. He had far too much anguish, pain and hatred built up; a bubbling pot that could over flow at any given moment. At the slightest of wrong words. He knew he shouldn't have snapped at her, that he again overreacted without thinking, and he couldn't stand to taint her presence with his own imperfect one.

Her question gained no answer, not even a minute response. His case had been collected and the stage abandoned for him to make his way back toward the solitude of his home. Ironic, the very thing he wanted to avoid, he sought out. And be damned if he wasn't plagued with the thought that he was going to seek her out again tomorrow and the next day.


	14. Chapter 14

The state Christine had left him in was one that troubled her for the entirety of the night. She refrained from sleep, plagued by the thoughts of her damnable curiosity and the trouble it had landed her in. She only wished to see his face and even that seemed to peeve him much more than she had meant it to, and child that she was, she concluded that this brief friendship was ended by her pestering. Hence, sleep did not save her from the active 'What if's' until an hour before dawn.

It was an uneasy sleep, one that left her sluggish and irritable the day after. Rehearsals were not attended with her usual clarity; she was unfocused and miserable at the barre, and the depth with which she had sang before was gone, or at least replaced with the bitter regard with which she held herself. Poor, wandering child, helpless and agitated in the knowledge that she had some how angered her Angel of Music.

She had gotten rid of her sorrow through tears, he purged his through music. When he had gotten down to his lair the score was again drug free from its portfolio to be set before him over the organ's board. It was a good thing that there was a great distance between his lair and the surface world, or the lingering few might have gained a fright by the fury of the notes. Eventually he had fallen asleep from exhaustion, his head resting against the bend of an arm where the score had rested. Upon awakening, the thirteenth attempt was fed to the flames. Starting anew, he just wasn't satisfied with what he had written.

Though he had the feeling that it would be best if he remained below, he ended up in the auditorium, watching the rehearsals with a great dissatisfaction. He had knocked her back a few paces with his denial. This wasn't good, not at all. Rubbing the inside of an eye, along the portion of nose's bridge that he did have, his eyes cracked open when he heard the portly manager call out, cheerfully, "Madame Giry! Forgive me for disturbing practice, but I must speak with you." Between thick fingers he clutched a missive, one definitely not written by the house's phantom. Curious, he inched closer to the curtain to watch the two.

Christine hardly noticed when Giry gave the instruction to stop in their rehearsal. She had the steps memorized and even still she was simply going through the motions, the heart and determination which she had fed into her limbs the day before dissipated with her demeanor. Meg had most certainly noticed this change and taking the opportunity of her mother's absence to question her little friend, she hurried from her position in the line to touch Christine's arm gingerly. She spoke not, fearful her mother would return and scold her. She simply conveyed with her bright blue eyes the concern she felt for her friend.

The Madame moved swiftly to the manager, cane in hand. "Not at all, Monsieur" she replied, speaking of his apology. "What is it?" she continued. She noticed then the paper he held within his grasp. Examining its parchment, she decidedly concluded that it wasn't from the infamous 'O.G.'

He grinned broadly, the first true grin he had given in some time, and lifted the missive to hand it to her. "It seems that along with the new managers, we are also gaining a patron," he whispered for only her ears to hear. "Oh, now if it was not for certain.." he frowned a bit, clearing his throat. ".._things_.. I would be tempted to remain as the sole manager." He lowered his voice, glancing around as if he expected their ghost to hear. He didn't have to strain too badly to listen, and besides, he could find out the information later.

"It is from the Vicomte de Chagny himself. He wishes the knowledge of his arrival to remain unknown to the masses. It seems he will be here for the first production of _Hannibal_!" Looking beyond her to the chorus girls he breathed out gently. "Which is soon. How goes practice? Any improvements to satisfy more than just the Vicomte?" Another quick glance would inform her of whom he was speaking, even if she didn't need the hint.

Giry was hardly unfamiliar with the arrival of new patrons, and wealthy ones at that. However, the Vicomte was reputed to be the very epitome of an upstanding gentleman. To have him among the other members of the audience that sat in the higher ranks of the aristocracy would perhaps bring even more attention of the Opera House.

She gave a curt nod to signify her understanding, his anxious nature something she'd grown accustomed to. At his question concerning the progress of the chorus however, it was the instructor's turn to become more than usually antsy. She lowered her voice quite a bit, glancing over her shoulder to specifically gaze over little Daae. "One girl shows great potential which in turn has ... inspired the other girls, if you will." She conveniently left out the small and mundane fact that she had a lingering suspicion that the Phantom's interest in the girl had something to do with her sudden improvement.

"I have received word of approval." She didn't say _from him,_ but the slight furrow in her brows hinted indirectly to whom she spoke of. No need in saying 'the ghost', or 'the phantom' – she didn't want to garner the attention of the chorus girls, or even that rancid Buquet who loved frightening the children from their wits.

Tipping his head a bit to the side he looked beyond her again to the girl that seemed to have the world on her shoulders. _Approval? For her? _Giving a nervous little chuckle he leaned back again, nodding subtly. "I ..see. This is indeed good thing to hear, Madame. I will be busy this next week, but should you wish anything, please, do not hesitate to inform me." Within that week, and the following, he had some preparations to make before he made his trip to Germany. Not only was he leaving the opera and the city, but the country as well. Was he spooked that much? Of course, but he wouldn't mention a word of it. Giving a light bow of his head he smiled again to her then made his way back to his office with a bit of a bounce to his step.

He had heard of many patrons taking interest in the house, providing a generous amount of coinage. But someone as high as a Viscount? Perhaps these new managers could give him more of a salary instead of the twenty grand he already received. It was a thought. While they were distracted by conversation he turned his focus to Christine. Only faintly did his lips move, offering a giving of words directly near her ear, soft enough to keep poor Meg ignorant. "You are lacking the heart, child."

Giry watched the old man retreat, sympathetic in a way, for his troubles caused by the elusive Opera Ghost she often served. Ah, well. It was better that he was leaving. The arrival of the new managers and a wealthy patron seemed to lighten her spirits. Perhaps that infectious good humor, if so sincere that it pierced even the icy facade of the Dance Mistress, could indeed remake the Opera itself. She turned swiftly to instruct the line of chorus girls. Meg, wary of her mother's position, quickly scampered from her friend's side to take her place at the end of the line. And poor Christine was oblivious to it all.

Every free moment was spent thinking of Erik, so it was that his voice, so brazen as to speak when others were present, hadn't startled her but washed upon her a wave of reassurance. She kept the joy from overwhelming her features, instead ignoring his remark and focusing her attentions on Giry as if to brush off and away his presence.

Only a moment did he glance toward Giry as she instructed the girls to return to their places, then his eyes were drawn back to Christine who gave no reaction to his words. He had expected something, anything, but her features remained impassively blank. His lips parted again to say something more, but silenced, and he leaned back to rest within the cushioned seats of the box. Did she hear him? Was she ignoring him?

Resting his elbows against the arms of the chair his fingertips touched together lightly, and he stared over the top to the floor below. She wouldn't understand his need to remain in shadows unless he showed her, and that was the last thing he wanted to do. She had to understand, or at least be tricked into thinking that he had no tangible form. Exhaling slowly he closed his eyes, listening to the rehearsal as it continued. He had no interest in the dancing and singing of the others below, and he didn't want to sit there, watching her and troubling his thoughts with her apathy.

Oh, but how hard it was to ignore his words! Had he not blatantly made his presence known, a fact she should have relished in? Surely if he had, that could only mean that he was not yet finished with her and her tutelage? She longed to reach out for his comfort, although she was unsure of the method. In dance? Surely not. He had never before expressed interest in the corps de ballet and so what sway could her suddenly rejuvenated form hold over her Angel? Impassioned limbs of celebration were inadequate compared to her voice; the voice he had given her, wings to lift her spirit into flight.

It seemed she could only hope for rehearsal's swift ending to again be graced by the presence of her Erik. Until then, she remained a subject of Giry and her instructions. The tap of her cane against the stage was a constant to her measured steps, her own form lost in the haze of spinning and leaping candy pink taffeta and chubby, blossoming maidens.

At times he had an amazing amount of patience. But at other times it proved to be incredibly short. Tapping his fingertips together in the same rhythm as the accompaniment below, he cracked open his eyes and shifted forward just enough so that he could still be hidden from prying eyes, but be able to see what was going on. Practice seemed to be taking forever, but it was needed. At least he didn't have to hear that screeching, repugnant woman trying to sing. That would have been murder, and he might have had the urge to drop something on her head. Something heavy just so it could get through those thick wigs she wore.

While he had never revealed any interest in the dancing portion of rehearsals, he was appeased to see that her limbs didn't seem so deadened anymore. Perhaps...perhaps he hadn't been shunned. Dragging free his pocket watch, he checked the time, willing it to go faster. If he remained here, it would be an hour or two longer before their practice could begin, or even simple conversation. That alone helped him make up his mind, and taking the hollow of the pillar down into the corridors he made his way to her dressing room.

The girls were quiet by the end of the day, their rehearsals and the other assorted activities draining them. Their bubbly natures were shed by yawns and sore feet and even the excitement of the upcoming performance hardly provided a renewed slew of laughter here and there. Each had made her way towards her dressing room, hurrying home to awaiting beds and the promise of a better day tomorrow, free of Giry's scowls and the spontaneous sharpness of her cane upon tutu'd backsides.

Christine had flocked with her peers to the dressing rooms. She had hoped to dodge Meg and her questions, eager to speak with her Erik. Shutting and locking the door behind her, she rushed to free herself of the unfavorable taffeta and skirt behind the security of her dressing screen. She emerged moments later to stand before her mirror, observing her reflection without interest. Her slender form was freed of the constrictive fabric, now languid in her white chemise and robe. Her hair had been tugged from her braid, combed through with her fingers as she awaited his voice, any sign of his presence.

It was a good thing he had brought his portfolio with him, it gave him something to do to pass the time while he waited for her arrival. With a fluid script he re-wrote the title of the opera, then turning to the next page he began dotting out notes upon the already drawn lines of music. No matter how much he tried, he couldn't figure out for the life of him why this libretto was giving him so much trouble. Once he got past the music, the rest would fall into place; the acting, dancing..everything.

Resting the quill within the binding, he closed the folder and rested it upon his lap then recorked the small vial of red ink. Regardless of the floor needing a bit of a sweep, he sat there upon the cool stone. Waiting several minutes he finally turned his head to look up at her. So close, yet so far. "Evening, my dear." It wasn't until after he studied her did he speak with some fondness within his voice that drifted, as it tended to, beyond her ear.

The dear ingénue deceived her earlier self with the smile that splayed upon her pale lips, one that reached her bright eyes and set her aglow with relief. She had taken a seat at her dresser when his words permeated the air around her. Her palms laid flat upon the oak surface, her chin lifted from beneath the weight that his demeanor, the previous night, had placed on her sensitive heart.

She breathed his name, the very word brimming past her happy smile as a prayer would on the lips of an invalid who, in their delirium, had hope for a cure: "Erik." Her eyes closed briefly for a moment, awash in unspoken rejuvenation. It was then she remembered herself, her words and continuing pressure from the night before. She immediately set to apologize, her expression shifting from that of radiant joy to a fearful and even desperate fatigue of knitted brow and wide, brimming eyes. "Forgive me."

There it was, the smile he had been expecting earlier, one that would lighten the darkest of nights. "Shhh, do not fret. You mustn't ask me of such things. I cannot allow you to see me; your Angel." For more reasons than just one, he couldn't allow such a thing. Sliding the folder from his lap, he placed it aside, resting it gently against the stone of the flooring. Pressing a palm to the ground he eased up and stepped closer to the mirror that remained an adequate barrier between them. He had no fear of being tempted to touch her, or of her seeing him here. "I am not angry," he reassured her, shaking his head gently. He had been, but at this moment, anger wasn't what he felt. Disappointment, pity…there were many things that tainted his mind and chest.

She was calmed by his words but could not help but expel the tiniest of disappointed sighs. It simply wouldn't do dream of a Voice, but it seemed that would have to suffice in her ongoing infatuation. She nodded obedientlypursing her lips together and lifting her palm to idly run a course along her neck and shoulder. Her jaw slackened as if she was to speak, but words were lost, the joy subsiding and a resolute and secretly disheartened calm settling. More of a mystery to her than ever before, Christine hadn't the faintest idea of what to say to him to explain her words and thoughts from the night before. Instead, she shifted the topic to more immediate issues. "I heard you speak to me in rehearsal." She didn't venture on to explain why she hadn't answered; was there really a need to?

"Ah, good. At first I thought you might not have heard me." Not that he expected her to answer; didn't want the others to think she was starting to talk to herself. Curling his fingers against the hem of his cape, he pulled it around to the side of him then before. Gently he brushed away the dust that marred the black cloth then once it met his approval, he let it fall back into place.

"There is something I wish you to do before our practicing, from here on. Ensure you have something tepid to drink with you. You have read the libretto?" Shifting his gaze from her to the room she stood in, his attention returned to rest upon her form. More than her singing had to be worked on. While Elissa didn't have any dancing parts, there was the need for some training in acting. Thoughtfully he pressed his lips thin.

Christine offered but a nod to his first statement, a thin smile pressed to her lips as she turned on the cushioned stool attentively, nodding once more, with fervor. "Yes, I have." She made a mental note of the water as she stood and crossed to retrieve the script from her chaise. She'd concealed it beneath her gown, assuring that any prying intruders wouldn't find it and become suspicious of a meek chorus girl taking an interest in the script and score.

Sitting again on her tapestry perch, she opened the bounded pamphlet to the first page and awaited his instruction. It struck her then exactly how and why she would be performing as Elissa, with Carlotta in perfectly good health and spirits, free of pronounced enemies and threats. She dared not question him as she had on the topic of his elusiveness the night before, but instead swallowed the great lump of already budding anxiousness as she sighed.

"Good. Then we shall begin. Have you any training in acting, Christine?" Loosely folding his arms over his lower stomach he tipped his head to the side slightly. If she hadn't, all the better. She could learn the movements during her singing, something that shouldn't come too difficultly. Chorus girls were always leaping to and fro, singing at the same time. He wasn't worried about the movement bringing too much vibrato within her words, if any at all. Dark against the lighter cloth of the robe, a solitary lock of hair drew eyes and lifting a hand he touched a finger's tip against the glass and slid it slowly to the side, as if he was brushing it from the upper portion of her chest to her shoulder and over.

She thought back to the days when her father had taught her to sing and dance, the lessons mediocre but an influence in her life none the less. His craft had been his music, predominately and foremost. Next to Christine, that was his love. With a shake of her head, the gesture stirring the aforementioned curl upon her chest, she answered hesitantly: "No, not that I recall." The lessons of chorus girls were merely to sing the right note when needed, to create the background noise of bright colors and bodies that moved in unison and seemed to fascinate the Opera audience, drawing them even further into the story. Rarely was there ever any stress on acting. Not by Madame Giry in the least.

"I will see to it that this is changed. To fully feel Elissa, you must do more than simply sing like her. You must be put through your paces, feel the weight of the costume upon you." Just how would he do that, he wondered? The answer came swiftly enough: He could over see her acting lessons, those she would receive from someone under his employ. Her lessons would be kept secret from the others, so Carlotta wouldn't get an upper hand at warning the managers about this young 'usurper.' Perhaps he could change the woman's mind about even being in the opera. As these thoughts and more traveled through his mind, his lips gave a subtle twist to the side, amused and determined all in one curl of mouth. "You will be _fully_ prepared before the opera comes to its production night."

Such feats he spoke of! Her mind was a blur of fears and doubts, of anticipation and promised glory. No longer was it a question of his ability to instill in her fame and adoration. The determination in his voice provided enough proof of that. However, she greatly feared Carlotta and her entourage. She was hardly a stranger to the Prima Donna's harsh remarks and thus she wondered how she could sneak past the fact that whilst her elder trained, she too prepared for the role of Elissa, and inevitably for unimaginable recognition. Her thoughts swam with the possibilities.

"And will you teach me?" She had wondered of the logistics of such instruction; he, though with name and voice, was only _just_ that – a voice. Troubled and anxious, Christine stood and began pacing to and fro before the large expanse of the mirror, her frail and delicate hands wringing themselves fitfully.

With one arm settled across his waist, and the other propped against it, he tipped his chin down for leather bound fingers to rub slowly against his chin. One, the index, lifted to graze along the portion of porcelain that framed one side of his mouth. "To sing, yes. To act, no. Another will oversee this task, though I will be there. Perhaps, after your lessons, I will go over what you have learned. Have you practice the movements while you sing. I will also see to it that you will be provided gowns." Even if he had to steal them from the cast here. They wouldn't be able to find where they had gone to, and Christine would only be wearing them in her own room. Yes, this was a perfect idea. He could inform the Madame, so she would not be worried about thieves. Besides him, of course.

She was curious as to how he would acquire the gowns but kept silent in fear of again evoking his irritation. To his mention of an instructor for her acting, brows had lifted heavenward and she paused in mid-step. She racked her brain of the possibilities as she asked quite gingerly with fear and respect – as she'd learned to regard him with – heavy in her soft tones: "Who?" Very few people in the Opera could _really_ be trusted, and little Christine had learned that lesson the hard way. She stood silent as she awaited his answer, her arms lifted to cross beneath her breasts.

Raising his head slightly so he'd be able to look at her from beneath the rim of the fedora he thought that over even more. Just who? "I will find someone, child." A few names flickered to mind, one of which was dashed away quickly, not wanting to get the same woman that trained Carlotta to train her. That one had done an incredibly terrible job.

Glad to see her stop pacing as it was about to make him antsy, he lifted his head more so he'd be able to look upon her fully. "Have faith, my dear. You will be ready before the production. I promise you. You will be the star of the opera." And he was quite sure that would happen. The more he said it, the more this was becoming believable.

She had instant faith in his decision and rested, assured by the balm of his voice. A smile spread to her angelic features, the corners of her mouth upturning as she sighed softly and nodded. "I trust you." And she did. With all of her heart she did. Her father had promised her this angel, and even if he had denied her the blessing of looking upon his surely magnificent form, she could be content in knowing he was constantly with her, watching and guiding her. Training her into the star her father had always dreamt her to be.

Her infatuation was ever increasing with each of his inspiring words; she found it necessary to more carefully consider her appearance when in his presence. She held herself somewhat straighter, willed life into her otherwise languid limbs and sang and danced with the spirit of a water sprite.

His contemplations brought to a screeching halt, he lifted his eyes to rest upon her form again. _Trust_. She trusted him. And here he was, leading her to believe that he was this angel that her father had spoken to her about. It was a good thing his conscience wasn't that guilty, or he might have revealed himself at that very moment. She trusted him, this unseen thing that made promises that would be unbelievable to any other person.

He fell silent, and lifted his hand to rest just the fingertips of index and middle against the glass. The rest of his hand followed and he gently nodded. "I know you do," he spoke softly, barely a whisper of a voice. After a soundless exhale of a breath he spoke again, "Fetch yourself something to drink, Christine. And hurry back. No worries about the ruffian, he'll not bother you." _And if he does I will break his neck._


	15. Chapter 15

That smile broadened with his words, her exhale deep as the whisper of his words coursed over her spirit and soothed what doubts and fears might have furthered their torment. As requested, she immediately moved to the oak surface that provided a gate between the outside world, a harsh reality of petty jealousies and unhappiness, and this new alternate reality where her dreams could descend upon her and his voice proved to be the only substantial means of surviving from one moment to the next.

She turned the tiny brass handle carefully, exiting into the hall and though he had assured her she needn't worry about Buquet, Christine was still obviously wary of each sound and thrown shadow. Ironic. It was once upon a time that those shadows and settling boards were thought to be the Opera Ghost, and she and Meg would scuttle down the corridor swiftly to the safety of the crowded dancer's lounge. Now, she knew she was protected.

Though he had the feeling that Joseph wouldn't be around, he snuck out from his little cubby area anyway, not wanting to fail in his 'duties' of being her protector. The stage hand was no where to be found, and this pleased him immensely. He had no desire to deal with that buffoon now, or in the future.

As she made her way to her destination then back to the room with a mug of water in her hand, he took the corridors again so he could return to his place behind her mirror. Once within the walls of her dressing room, a breath was expelled as she set the silver container upon the surface of her dresser and sat.

Slinking up the stairs and close to the plane glass, he stood but a foot or two from its surface. "Are you ready to practice, my dear? You may have it before you this time, unless you have already memorized the singing parts." To which he would be somewhat surprised. But at least it would allow him to know just how determined she was to become what he had promised; the diva.

She retrieved the libretto from the surface of her wardrobe, opened the parchment to the first page and folded back the leather bind. She stood, her shoulders straight as she lifted her chin; the evidence of his instruction, with the eagerness within her to work bleeding through the earlier fear of Buquet and his despicable advances. In truth, she'd glanced over the script at various times, a moment here and there snagged to attempt the first memorization. Elissa's aria she'd memorized to heart, obviously. It was the first song he had trained her to sing. As for the others, scattered measures came and went with the conflict of her daily schedule.

Softly nodding, he lifted a hand and gathered the top of the fedora in his cupping fingers. Sliding it free from his head he tucked it beneath his arm, then pressed the fingers of his now free hand through the strands, smoothing them back, careful of the thong that held the mask against his face. Lowering his arm to rest his hand to the curve of hardened felt, he brushed one finger against it. "Begin with the opening song, my dear. I've not heard you sing it yet." The feel of lacking a hat was foreign when he was outside of his lair and so it was lifted and slid back upon his head.

As instructed, she prepared to sing the opening song, a difficult number but one she now possessed the courage to conquer. Courage _he_ had given her. She owed so much to her Erik, her mysterious Angel of Music.

Holding the score before her, without the assistance of the piano, she realized the difficulty of relying solely on herself to claim each correct note without faltering. This she found was difficult. Although her voice had improved greatly, the quality clear, her uncertainty bled through the astonishing talent. She grew embarrassed, her cheeks flushed red as she continued, reaching at last a measure she had grown familiar with and she breezed through the rest without difficulty, an understandable contrast between the opening lines of the song.

He was beginning to see a bit of a folly in his plans. If he wanted her to sing properly, he had to give her some musical accompaniment. He couldn't do it behind the mirror, she'd know right then and there that someone was behind it. He was sure that sounds would be pretty muffled, but he didn't want to take that chance. At all.

The reddening of her cheeks brought a faint smile to his lips and he shook his head, still disbelieving that something so demure could be found. Even little Meg wouldn't blush so quickly. He was warming up to this girl, and in a way, it disturbed him greatly. The last girl he had shown some measure of care for fell to her death from his 'foster-father's' balcony. "Stop. I believe you need some music with you, no? So you can better envision the notes. Go to the auditorium." Even as he gave that gentled command he backed up, readying to head down the stairs.

As instructed, she stopped, retrieving the mug of water from the stand and sipping its contents carefully. She had almost anticipated a scolding but found instead a gentle stir of words that she could not help but obey. Closing the script, she moved silently from the room with the leather bound book and her water in hand.

All was silent in the corridors. Stirring from upstairs and even – if she strained to listen close enough – from below created the illusion of another world entirely that existed only within the cover of nightfall. She wasn't scared anymore of what lingered in the dark, assured by the presence of the Voice that found her.

Crossing between the flats that littered the backstage area, she entered onto the stage and listened; for his words, for a sign of an approaching stage hand, for _anything. _It was certainly a favorable task over allowing her mind to venture from her elusive tutor.

There was another out on the stage, by the look of a few of the footlights that were on. Joseph was doing some late night work that the manager had asked him to, but upon seeing just what little morsel had come out on the stage, he climbed down from the catwalks to make his exit. A rather quick exit at that, when he swore he saw that 'floating half face' of white. He didn't, though. It was only his imagination working over time, and the liquor that was heavy within his system.

With the footlights being on either side of the stage, the pit was still quite darkened, which gave him the heart to draw closer to it. She would gain the accompaniment that she needed, and if she dared look, there would be naught but shadow to meet her eyes, an illusion made by the darkness of his garb. Slender fingers brushed lovingly against the keys, caressing out the first few notes before his voice was heard near her ear. "Ready?" Even as he asked, he played the opening of the first song, filling the auditorium with sound.

The startling clarity of the piano jolted her form, her eyes darting quickly to the edge of the stage where just beyond lay the pit, darkened by shadow. And still, the beautiful sound resonated from its depths. She stood transfixed by this for a moment, edging closer, inch by inch, until the brush of his voice against her ear brought her to her senses. Had she the desire to seek him there in the orchestra pit, all would surely have been lost – most of all, her Erik. He had blatantly said she would never see him, and remembering that, she resolved to accept the fact.

She paused and knelt. Settling her water at her feet, she straightened and opened her script once more, nodding as she awaited her cue. _Yes, definitely improved. _His accompaniment had greatly assisted the beginning lines of the song, and the first notes came with a renewed strength behind them. Her wings spread and lifted her into the heavens on the wave of that glorious sound, and with each note she was brought closer to him by the evidence of his instruction and encouragement. Granted, not every note was precise, but it was astonishing the veracity with which she sang. Her courage of conviction and the over-all compassion behind the simple lyrics lifted her soul to higher planes of adoration for her angelic guide.

Every note _had _to be precise, though. And while with any other song he might have left it to pass, he couldn't do it this time, not with the opera being right around the corner. He paused her with a gentle word and silence of the music, instructing her.. "E, Christine. Not C. Again." Christine made note of her mistake, moistening her lips as she hummed lightly to herself the notes leading to her flawed E. Again, as requested, she inhaled and pushed from her diaphragm the written melody. She started from the beginning of the song having hardly ventured into its full sway.

He was a kind teacher, at least. But still, there was that knowledge that his soft word could turn into a growl with the blink of an eye. Closing his eyes to half lid, he played on, listening carefully to her voice. She was doing well for her first time with the music, but this was only the beginning.

She reached easily the note he'd corrected, pausing to await his remarks, her brows lifted in an expectant and rather hopeful manner. In the mean time, she knelt to take in hand the silver mug of water. The tepid water was refreshing against her lips and throat, parched by the air required for the notes. She made no complaint, grateful for his assistance. She could but give him her undivided attention and eagerness to work, reminding herself when her doubts clouded her thoughts that he had promised her stardom, and stardom she would receive. Though, his praise was more of a gift than that of any she could have imagined, as deep as her growing adoration was.

"Good, good. You are coming along quite well, my dear." His approval drew a soft smile to her features, the constrictions within her chest released with a sigh that signified her relief. The gentleness of his voice cajoled in her an effervesce of emotion; joy, contentment, and she felt ten pounds lighter and happier as she had in the days of her father and his stories told around the warmth of a fireplace and the companionship of a long ago friend.

Though it was only the first song, she had pressed through the corrections he gave her very well. The rest of the songs shouldn't be difficult, and the most important song had met with his approval, so far. The aria needed only a little work. He was more concerned about the acting she would have to do. Dancing and acting were two different things. Perhaps, if he found someone suitable to teach her, she wouldn't strut around the stage like some over inflated peacock.

"When you are ready we shall continue to the next." His fingers began another slow trail along the keys. Completely skipping the beginning of the song, and lingered within the slower melody of _Confutatis_. He always enjoyed listening to that song, though it had been many years since he last heard it. "Have you questions of me this evening?" Just a bit of conversation during the interlude.

Another sip of the liquid was taken, held to her abdomen by clutched fingers, one of which gripped the score idly. His remark was taken into careful consideration, the obvious question left out. Instead, she gave a soft laugh and eased forward but an inch towards the footlights and beyond, the orchestra pit. "Are you granted liberty to tell me anything of yourself besides your name?"

He gave thought to this question, and the playing slowed down slightly to reflect this, before it was taken back to its original pace. "Depends on the question. If I am able to answer, I will do so to the best of my ability." It was best to answer in that manner, or else she might ask a particular question that he shouldn't be answering. At least he was sure she wouldn't ask to see him again.

He closed his eyes completely, drawn further into the music he was playing, even to the point where she could hear his gentle humming. The song called for a higher pitch, soprano, but it sounded just as beautiful with a deeper lilt. Not wanting to take his eyes from her, just in case she traveled down into the pit, he opened them again to look upon her.

_Well, what to ask then? _She thought for a moment, resting her weight from one bare foot to the next, canting her head a bit as she questioned aloud. "How long have you been here, in the Opera House?" She asked as if he was a ghost who, in life, had died some horrible, tragic death within the walls of the Opera house and thus was damned to roam its halls for all eternity. Which she, of course, did not intend.

She wondered if she should have corrected herself but instead awaited his answer, her gaze lowering to watch the ripples that stirred on the surface of the shadowed water which she disturbed with each movement. The gentle notes of the piano rested heavily upon her, and she stifled a yawn as best she could behind an uplifted palm, the hand venturing, at gesture's end, to knead at her shoulders. The thicket of her curls had fallen over her shoulder and down her back, exposing the milky white skin towards the base of her neck to her touch.

Though his eyes were opened and half lidded, his mind traveled to a different time. He remembered looking upon the broad steps that lead to the portico, with piers bearing many symbolic figures of poetry, music, drama and allied arts, and upon boldly projecting balconies on the loggia, along with the large, monolithic columns. The whole building spoke of art, in every sweeping line and high arch.

"Since eighteen sixty-one." If she knew anything of the opera house, she knew that was when the building was completed.. but.. "To be technical, since a few years before then." _During its making._ He was, after all, the co-designer of the building. Perhaps he was a ghost that was brought to fruition somehow. A worker that died during its construction? The questions remained; Angel or ghost, both or neither?

She took in this answer in silence, nodding slowly as her mind ventured elsewhere. More specifically, to his origin. She was curious to know everything of her angel, considering the power which he held over her seemed to express signs that he knew much of her. How else could he call himself an Angel of Music if he did not know that her father had promised to send her one? Granted, her reasoning was blinded by her rather biased views of him, and her attempt to rationalize these unfolding events.

Regarding her quietly he transformed the song he was playing to the aria with gentle lilting notes. "You are tired?"

His question stirred her from such troubling thoughts and with a shake of her head, the first notes of the aria lilting to her ears, she responded quietly. "Only a little." The soothing sound of his voice, as well as the piano playing there in the dark was what did it. Her next question came quietly, her eyelids heavy despite her earlier answer. And still, she did not feel sleep pressing upon her. "Why me?" Of course, why she, out of all the chorus girls and pointe dancers in the Opera, he had chosen her to guide. Why had he seen fit to grant her his knowledge, to inadvertently stir the darker recesses of her nature? And why, so foolishly, did she fret over her appeal to him like a simpering girl with a crush would?

Her gaze lifted out into the darkness of the auditorium, and each shadow she found she befriended with the veracity she observed them with, hopeful in some strange way that it was he, gliding from the depths of his secret world.

"Why _not _you?", he asked immediately after her own words. "You have been promised an angel, have you not? A father's promise is oft the strongest bind." The words slipped from his lips before he even had a chance to correct them. It was too late already. What more would it matter if she thoroughly believed him to be this angel? It wouldn't hurt. It would bring her career to life, encourage it to take further flight upon those wings, removing the clipping that her sorrow had placed upon them.

"Would I have brought myself to you if he had not made the promise?" he asked both her and himself. If she didn't strive to retain her arts by the will of her father, then he would have never met her, never would have come to her. _But if it was possible.._

"Yes. Yes I would have."


	16. Chapter 16

She made no visible sign of acknowledging his words at first, consumed by thoughts of her father as he lay dying, and she being helpless to save him. She remembered the misery of those months afterwards, accustoming herself to a life without his warmth and music, his stories and smiles. She was taken into the care of Mama Valerius, and even still with a warm bed and wholesome meals made with all of the love the charitable elder could stir, an emptiness had settled in her heart where once an eagerness to live life to its fullest extent lay. Not even the stories she recalled of goblins and the fascinating Angel of Music could console her. Her dance and singing suffered for it thus.

That is, until she found Erik. Or rather, so it seemed, Erik found _her_.

Tears brimmed in her eyes and yet went unshed as she spoke, her voice barely above a whisper. "What words can I conjure to express how I feel? What song or melody can possibly convey my adoration for you? You have brought me to life, my dear friend. I am forever in your service." _My heart is yours._

He couldn't help the smile that crossed his lips with her words and glancing away from her he looked upon the path of his fingers against the keys, though he didn't have to watch himself play. It warmed him to feel wanted. Thawing, if only slightly, that block of ice that made up his soul. He was a fool to be exposing himself to her in such ways, but he believed he had it all under control. If only he could see and realize the fraying threads of that very control. It was the acceptance and adoration. She _needed_ him.

Only the music followed her words; he was unable to think of something to say to her comment. It truly struck him silent. But after a slow drag of breath he gave an unseen nod. "You need not say anything, Christine." A simple phrase, but anything else was so lost on him.

Her chin lowered, thin splays of dark curls falling against her cheeks as she sighed. She _was _growing weary, almost as if her confession was one that pressed upon her and only now had been granted a release. His playing lulled her, relaxed every tensed muscle in her dancer's frame as she sipped again her mug of water. The silence between them spoke worlds of secrets. The container was empty now, her arms free to fold around her slender abdomen as she again stifled a yawn.

It was no doubt late and the streets, for the most part, abandoned. Mama Valerius' home was still by now, she figured. The elderly woman was probably snoring loudly from her bedroom as the other boarded occupants slept soundly with full bellies and heads filled with dreams. She remained silent there on the stage, behind the warm glow of the footlights.

This just wouldn't do. His time to practice with her was becoming too short. The bit of light he felt was drawn closer toward dark as his mood shifted and he frowned faintly. "You should rest." He managed to keep the disappointment out of his voice, and slowly he brought his fingers to a stand still. Brushing them against the keys soundlessly, he shifted his weight, drawing closer to the bench's side. Smoothly pushing to a stand he stepped back a few feet and glanced up at her from beneath the rim of the tipped fedora.

He had to speak to Madame to convey this concern. Sliding his fingers into the pocket of his slacks he gave a gentle and slow press of his thumb against the dial that would open his watch. Checking the time he nodded to himself. If she was going to depart he would again ensure she made it home safely. Or he could always sing her to sleep again. "Will you rest here?" he questioned, turning his gaze up to her; hopefull.

"Yes, I believe I will." Her words were hushed, and the moment they left her she found herself wondering why she'd muttered them at all. Was she so attached to this man, or mystery, as to exchange the luxuries of her boarding home for the unnecessary discomfort of her cold dressing room? Perhaps. Or maybe it was that little Christine, for all the dreams that filled her pretty head and all of the emotions that had overtaken her since that night of the ticking pendulum, had somehow found in the infamous and so called Opera Ghost a source of friendship. She owed him a world of gratitude, and still she was troubled by her lack of experience to express it.

She lifted her heavy eyes towards the orchestra pit, a great abyss of shadow that drew her curiosity and furthermore her vexation. A cold chill overtook her then, tiny hands gathering the lapels of her robe and tugging its thin material closer around her breast. She awaited his words, the sweetest sound to her ears that ever she'd heard on this terrestrial ball.

When she agreed, a ghost of a smile passed over his lips. Keeping the button pressed, he closed the lid of the pocket watch, clicking it closed silently. Placing the silver back into his pocket, he withdrew his hand and folded his arms loosely over his stomach, fingers curling along either elbow. "This pleases me. Perhaps I shall sing you to sleep again?" His head tipped to the side, though she wasn't able to see the curious gesture, even if she had been looking in his direction. Her eyes were opened wide and yet unable to see what stood a score of feet away.

How he wanted her to see him, to be close, but he knew he wouldn't be able to bear the sight of her cringing back away from him in horror. But, he was her tutor. What need did she have to see him? Teachers didn't have to be before a person, unless it was to play an instrument. The only instrument she had, though, was her voice. "Return to your dressing room. I will be there," he stated so softly, that even near her ear, the voice seemed far away.

That voice coaxed her to turn and leave the stage quickly, her hands outstretched before her in the dark wings. When she began her journey, Erik had done the same. It wasn't so surprising, at least to him, that he could roam through these corridors in pitch blackness. He knew this house from seven stories below the surface to his lair, to the golden lyre that was held aloft.

Reaching the hall, she turned and retreated to her dressing room. Wary glances were cast here and there for any signs of interlopers, primarily, Buquet. Buquet was a smart man, regardless of the lack of educational intelligence he might have. He knew better than to mess with the woman so quickly after he had caught a glimpse of the Phantom's hellish gaze. A gaze that seemed almost protective in the way it hovered but a few feet behind the diminutive woman that night.

She left her door ajar and as she pressed against its oak surface. It complied with the weight and creaked softly on its hinges and closed behind her. The various candles had extinguished in a death of erupting wax and she made no move to relight them. The shadows cast upon the papered walls and the grand mirror that spanned a majority of the far wall, in her overactive imagination, took on the shapes of the spirit she so longed to feel near.

Moving quite sluggishly to the chaise, Christine lowered her wearied form slowly to rest upon the tapestry furniture. She drew her legs close to her, her cheek rested to her palm as splays of her chocolate curls fell over her brow and cheeks. The chill had yet to abandon her and she trembled in the dark, hugging her abdomen tightly with her free arm as she let her mind wonder.

Immune to the chill that wrapped about the building, a chill that spoke of the coming winter within the baleful gusts of frosty air, he reached her level and mirror with a subtle furrowing of brow at her trembling form. She was cold, and that didn't satisfy him. He had to find her some blankets for her room should she take to resting within. If not find some, then purchase them. A few cushiony and warm blankets wouldn't break his extensive accounts. "Have you a cloak?" he finally questioned, shifting the gaze of muted gold from her to her room in a slow studious glance.

She had all but drifted into sleep when his voice roused her. Soothing, it would have lulled her into dream had it not been for the pressing cold. She lifted her weight onto her palm, her form perked by his question as she eyed the darkened room for her cape. It was suspended from the corner of her dressing screen and rising, she approached it with an outstretched palm, longing for its warmth.

With the heavy material in hand, she returned to the chaise and again willed her form to seek some semblance of comfort. She draped the darkened cloak over her, the midnight hue bringing out the heavenly cream glow of her skin and robe. She rested her head atop her drawn up arm, yawning softly and clutching the material to her tiny form. Her voice was soft, heavy with exhaustion as she sighed. "What will you sing for me, Erik?"

Though he had eyes to see well enough through the shadows, he would much rather have had a candle lit so he could see her more clearly. Unfortunately, that wasn't the case now. She needed her sleep and he wasn't going to keep her up, not when she had rehearsals, and the opera was just around the corner. These new managers could come in handy. Maybe he could use them to get her into the position of Carlotta, the diva of the upcoming show.

His lips thinned in a contemplative press and he glanced up when she said his name. Such a simple name, but it sounded like music when passed over her lips. "What would you like for me to sing?" Tipping his head curiously he drew closer to the mirror until he was standing but a foot or so away. Folding his arms over his stomach his fingers set in a loose curl along the bend of his elbows.

Though the rich depths of her eyes were concealed, she spoke softly as if he was but inches from her instead of feet. "Have you any songs that you've written?" If she couldn't see him, examine in his eyes the hint of a soul and its troubles and joys, perhaps she could further her depth with her Angel in his music.

Her father had told her that music was oft sometimes the only window to the human spirit. By the vigor with which one sang, much was said of their humanity. With Carlotta, however, the direct opposite was true. A wry cant came to the corner of his lips. "Yes. Yes I have written music, several pieces, in fact." One of which was driving him crazy. Normally he would simply let go and move on to his next opera. He had dozens of scripts that were partly finished, gathering dust upon his piano or organ, scattered here and there. For someone who was so immaculate about his appearance, his work space was quite the opposite; an untidy, yet controlled mess. He knew where every thing was should he have need to look for it.

Raising his head and gaze as well, he drew it along the back of the mirror's frame, immediately catching a glance of the latch, invisible to the unknowing eye, that would allow him entrance. A spring and slide of mirror, and he would be able to go into her room. He shook off the thought and turned his attention to her anew.

She questioned her temptation to ask him to sing, ever mindful of his quick temper and easily agitated demeanor. She hoped to never fall beneath his wrath nor bring on the brute of his silence, which to Christine was a fate much more fearful than even death. She requested quietly, barely beyond a whisper that filtered through the dark, humble and in adoration for his music: "Might I hear you sing one?"

She shifted in discomfort on the mauve chaise, and in the movement her cloak slid across her breasts and rested on her slender abdomen. Her mass of curls spiraled over her shoulders and neck, framing that angelic visage with the dark upon light contrast of her surroundings and the warm tint of her bodice and the thin garments that concealed the porcelain expanse.

He grew silent, but this time there was not that cold, stoic chill that she had felt once before. This was a thoughtful silence, followed by a lulling chuckle. Though it rumbled deep within the base of his throat, it lingered near her, before her, as if he was crouched right there, within reach. Tangible. "I am afraid that most of what I have written is either simple musical accompaniment, or operas I'm quite sure would bore you." He gave a gentle nod and slid one hand up to bring it to the glass. His eyes turned from her, to the absent-minded pattern he began making against the smooth surface. "Is that what you wish, Christine? For me to sing a song I have written? If I give it thought, I can remember something."

A touch of disappointment quickly dissipated with his final remark. She nodded softly, remembering only moments later in the enveloping silence that perhaps he could not see this gesture. She mustered the strength within her dazed and weary form to respond softly, her voice akin to a child requesting that final bed time story despite their sleepy eyes and drifting mind. "Yes, please." The cold had left her and she fancied in her exhausted state that it was by aid of his presence alone, the cloak only a necessity of this earth.

Warmth surrounded her with the first anticipation of his song. He drew from her a peace she had felt never before, a contentment that seeped from each inch of her and made her senses greatly aware of each brush of air at her cheek, each tickle of those thick curls at the nape of her neck. She rolled to her side once more, her arms crossed upon her bosom as she sighed deeply.

The tone of her voice brought a faint smile to his lips and he shook his head gently. At times he had to remind himself that she was so young, perhaps less than half his age. A woman-child that had lost the only thing that was truly dear to her. Yes, yes perhaps that's what this.._thing _was. This feeling, a fatherly protection, a figure to guide her through the harsh times in this opera house, to protect her and.. and to love as well as be loved. That would explain it all. Even a murderer had a nurturing nature, if they found something that would draw their attention and their kind hand.

Placing his palm flat against the mirror he turned his eyes from the black leather to the space between index and thumb where her reclining form lay trapped. "As you wish," he finally responded after what seemed like an eternity of silence and drawing in a slow breath he closed his eyes before his voice was be heard, coming from nowhere, yet everywhere. He often enjoyed writing in a different language, mostly Romany and it was in that flowing tongue that his words blanketed her weary senses.

She smiled, a warm little expression that merely tugged at the corners of her pink mouth and brightened the hue in her cheeks ever so slightly. She was pleased by the affection in his tone, one that relieved his usually formal and authoritative demeanor. The swell of his rich, tenor voice filled every inch of her, a soothing balm to a wound long irritated by the trials and tribulations of the Opera House and her own inward grief and loneliness. Perhaps it was that these two were not so very different, each feeling confined to shadow – whether literally, as he preferred, or a figurative darkness that little Daae oft felt consumed by – each invariably longing for something, for _someone _to connect to.

As his voice washed over her reclining form, she felt herself drifting into sleep though she still fought the temptation if only to hear her Angel sing. In her lingering state between dream and reality, she imagined the soft brush of his breath to her ear as he sang, the comfort with which his words soothed, in tender affection, the knots of her spirit.She found herself humming with each of his notes, trained not in the language but by his skilled and heavenly voice that made her want to join him.


	17. Chapter 17

_You are becoming castrated, Erik, _a familiar little voice in the back of his head purred mockingly._ This girl, with her smiles and lovely voice, is slowly disarming you. Just weeks ago you would not have given her the time of day. And now you sing her to sleep. You are a murderer, liar and a cheat, no matter how you might try to change your scales. _He was often his own worst enemy; chastising, tearing himself down. That was one reason why he strove for perfection, strove to ensure that what he worked on was nothing short of perfection. And even then, he redid it just to be sure. Charles was nearly driven mad by his coworker's constant changes to the plans for the opera house. But it turned out for the best, especially when he got to construct the lower levels, his labyrinthine passages and dead ends.

Some of them were quite literally _dead ends_.

He wouldn't let those thoughts plague him now, nor allow that cynical voice taunt him. No, not right now. He focused on the young woman, and the light she was steadily bringing into this oppressive darkness that shrouded him, one that threatened to completely consume him. With great genius came great madness, especially without any outlets. Here, now, was an outlet, him singing for her, pouring all he could within the words. His pleasure was doubled when he heard her lyrical voice added to the unwritten score.

Christine, in her reverie, imagined that perhaps his words were a gentle caress to her cheeks and shoulders, one that tangled in her hair and brushed upon her lips as light and delicate as a feather. Father, teacher, her promised Angel of Music? In that moment, thoughts of his origins and identity left her, as did the doubts of her upcoming debut. In the silence of the Opera House, Christine drifted between worlds on the wings of his voice, freed at last, by his song, from the restrictions of her sadness, and her inevitable glory.

However, the needs of the physical self often became greater than that of the spiritual and it was on the crest of his vocal perfection that she drifted into a peaceful slumber at last, her expression calm and the soft lilting melody of her accompanied humming fading beneath the power of his words. The candles upon her dresser burned low, reflected in the oak framed mirror as well as the great surface of the same substance that spanned the far wall. The flickers of light darted and danced their patterns along her lovely face, an angel sleeping bundled within the blanket of night.

As her consciousness waned, so did the song upon his lips, and his gaze was drawn to the dying candle as it flickered, leaping into the air against the gentle breeze that leaked into her room from the hallway. Sealed and secure, he ensured the mirror wouldn't offer even a lick of air. Sliding his fingers from the glass, a duo caressed down the line of her side before leather bound hand finally pulled away and dropped beneath the drape of cloth. One more stop before he traveled below the opera house. He only hoped that it wasn't too late. If so, there was no harm in leaving a note for the woman.

Backing down the stairs he turned around with a glance over his shoulder, then curling his cape around his body he made his way back up two levels to the main floor of the building and to the office of the Madame. For a moment he lurked behind that sliding portion of wall, his eyes low as he thought over just what he wanted to do. Perhaps too quickly his mind was made, and he pressed open the panel only a sliver to glance within, ensuring whether she was there, or whether there were any unwanted individuals present before he slipped beyond.

While the Paris Opera House, from the outside world, appeared dark and luminous against the burning street lamps, upon its veranda, within its great walls, lurked the shadows of ghost and their muses, and the remaining stage hands who worked well into the night, painting flats and attaching to grand hollowed elephants the ornaments of long ago times and places. It was a world within a world, silent by night and ruled over by the genius – and dare say madness – of a masked misanthrope.

Of this nighttime kingdom, Madame Giry was most certainly a servant. She had sent her daughter home hours prior to this encounter with the 'O.G.', though she didn't expect the portion of the wall to shift at the exact moment she'd propped her feet upon her desk to relieve some vexation from their day's work.

She was hardly fit to be seen, her skirts pulled up over the stocking covered legs that were her pride and joy, the rest of her long ago having surrendered to the advancing of age. She was not in her prime anymore, but still fit to serve as Dance Mistress and Keeper of the occupied Box Five. With his appearance, the white of his dress shirt and the mask that peered from underneath the rim of his fedora the single illumination from within the shadow, Giry quickly straightened and stood, flustered but nevertheless attentive as she rushed forth a quick apology. "Pardon, monsieur. You startled me." Several of his previous notes were scattered atop her desk as well as numerous other pieces of parchment that included information pertaining to her new management and her salary.

Curling his fingers against the 'door's' edge, he gave it a slight press, ensuring that it didn't come unlatched while he was in there. He could easily get out, though he would find it done more quickly with a clear passageway. Seeing that he caught her off guard, and in a rather relaxed position, he manage to keep his face passive, though he chuckled inwardly. Fedora's rim tipped gently, and she could hear the humor within his melodic voice: "Perhaps I should have knocked." Then that seriousness she knew him to have seeped back into place as he continued. "It was rude of me. Forgive me."

Instead of moving further inside, he remained lurking near the corner, just out of reach of completely revealing his partly shadowed form. "I have come to ask a favor of you, Madame." A pause, and the rim of the hat rose enough for her to see the eccentric glitter of his eyes settle upon her tired frame. "Concerning Mademoiselle Daae."

She had, indeed, caught his humor. A smile had showed itself until it was extinguished by his sudden seriousness. Giry was accustomed to his swift changes of demeanor; she took this in stride, nodding deeply so as to grant acceptance of his apology as she listened carefully. A favor, as always, and she was happy to comply. He tipped generously, and treated her with respect. She did her best to conceal the lift of her brows at his mention of Christine, moving around the desk and standing still some feet away from him, but able to see if perhaps a passing hint of intention lay in his amber eyes.

"Of course, Monsieur." Daae was improving daily, Giry had noted, no doubt because of his expressed interest. The young girl's improvements in both dance and song were evident. Even Reyer, for all of his apathy towards the chorus, had noticed. Carlotta, too, had taken note, and Giry could not help but suffer a smile of satisfaction for the child when she overheard the present Prima Donna and her devotees ranting in full contempt of the blossoming starlet.

How should it be worded? Vague, or simply...blunt? Puzzles he enjoyed, riddles, but when it came to something like this, he was straight forward. "I wish her to cease her rehearsals. Should a question be posed about the chorus girl, say she is learning from a private tutor." He paused again, his head faintly tipping to the side. "Though I doubt any would care to know where a simple line girl has gone, do you not agree?" Why focus upon the lack of a back up singer when the diva would be shining upon the stage, right? Though, this time, she wouldn't be the one in the back, half hidden by Carlotta's overwhelming presence and horrid, screeching voice. He was surprised that he hadn't been accosted by a tick or twitch each time he heard her sing.

A part of the strict chorus instructor moved to appeal to him, to allow Christine the chance to at least finish learning her choreography. She hardly had the expertise of La Sorelli, the Opera's Prima Ballerina. She had room left for considerable improvement, for Heaven's sake! However, she held her tongue wisely, nodding slowly as she made a mental note of the new arrangement. Curiosity held her in constant bewilderment of why he was interested in the homely chorus girl. _Ah, well._ Who was she to question his generosity and authority? Had she not an obligation to him to conceal what information she knew of him? Turning, she moved behind the desk again, taking her previous seat.

_No argument at all?_ He had expected something, anything. Topaz narrowed slightly, watching her as she roamed off to the desk to take up her seat again. It wasn't an irritable look, but one of mild curiosity. Well, if she wasn't going to argue, this pleased him greatly. "This is to begin tomorrow. There are greater things for her than being a simple chorus girl, Madame. You can see it as well as me." He didn't need to explain himself, would not have to just the manager, or managers.. But this was Madame Giry, and he could afford some respect toward her. He gave a gentle tipping of his chin as fingers lifted to touch the gloved pads to the edge of fedora. "Unless you have need to speak further, Madame.. I will depart."

The woman watched him with silent regard for the moment, leaving her lingering concern for Christine and her new tutor unmentioned. Perhaps it was foolish of her. If only she had been aware of the circumstances that lay in wait before them all, but she dared not open her mouth for fear of his anger. Worse, she knew of his undeniable power to ruin Meg's blossoming career as a dancer and to hold sway over the new managers and their decision to keep the Dance Mistress on staff.

Touching her fingers to her high forehead, she then ran her palm over the carefully placed chignon, highlighted with the grey of age. She spoke carefully, treading easily into her next remarks. "She expresses an eagerness to learn, Monsieur. I trust you will respect that first and foremost beyond _personal _interests, if any..." _And protect her virtue from even the slightest of suspicious behavior. _She lifted her gaze slowly to him, brows lifted heavenward as she watched his expression carefully.

Lowering his hand to his side he slipped it beneath the cover of his cape and made to turn, though the draping cloth came to a swirling stop about his ankles. At first he thought nothing of her words until it clicked just what she was hinting at. It was the glint of cadaverous gold that settled upon her first before his head followed in a languid turn. Then those cat like eyes slitted. "I have no intention of focusing on more than her eagerness to learn, _Madame._" Though that single word wasn't hissed out, it should have been. How _dare_ she even _think_ that he would seek anything more than teaching her. She grimaced with his low words, heavy with danger and leashed contempt: "Does it seem so disturbing that I have taken an interest in the young ingénue? _That_, I assure you, is all it is. A _musical_ interest." Drawing in a slow breath he grunted low in the depths of his throat. "Now, if you do not mind, I have some things to tend to."

She bowed her head deeply, her voice humble and apologetic though the fear of his new tutelage over the young Daae troubled her still. "Pardon, Monsieur. I am sorry to have kept you." Giry straightened, observing him from behind the depths of eyes that had seen much in this trade of words. She resolved that after this brief encounter she would return to her home, sleep until the next day when work revolved around the girls of the _corps de ballet _... and their mothers. Those damnable clucking hens were the thorn in her side, insisting on styling this girl's hair this way and lamenting that their slave costumes were much too suggestive.

Giry found herself pitying young Christine in those times of everyday chatter shared between mother and daughter, the child sitting quietly to the side and taking in her surroundings with melancholy sighs. She needed guidance, and though this was what the Opera Ghost insisted was his intention, the maternal region of her otherwise icy cold demeanor suspected otherwise.

Curling his fingers along the side of the midnight cloth, he pulled it around his body, shrouding him deeper in the darkness that so often welcomed him, he turned and made his way through the slot in the wall. Without further comment, the portion slid closed, shutting seamlessly with only a hushed sound in the still air.

In cloaking silence he made his way down toward the depths of his lair, beneath the two lower Palais floors. While it wasn't his intention to stop until he was safe within his home across the lake, he did pause, before the mirror of that night's topic; Christines. Though the candles had burned out, he could still see the outline of her form, by the faintest light slithering its harsh caress beneath the door.

_Just a musical_ _interest.. _He reminded himself.

Without drawing any closer to the mirror, lest he end up falling asleep near the barrier, he continued on with nothing but the gentle symphony of his own steps to keep him company.


	18. Chapter 18

_Just taking a moment to thank all of my reviewers and readers! This is where it begins to get familiar. Nevertheless, hope you continue to enjoy, as my Muse calls it, Amor Vincit Omnia: The Directors Cut. _

* * *

The weeks flew past in a blur of color and energy for the Palais Garnier. 

As the orchestra joined the final rehearsals of _Hannibal,_ peach dance taffeta and gauze skirts were traded for the more constrictive material of heavy cotton, eccentrically jeweled by the costume department upon the narrow bodice and thick belt. Free flowing skirts, of deep gold and intermingled regal red, fluttered behind the foot lights. Grand elephants were carefully painted on the backdrop, ready to transport the audience into a place of long ago, far away, into a tale of grandiose melodrama.

The aforementioned weeks had shown a definite improvement in the progress of the performance. Christine Daae, however, had had none of it. She'd been instructed to cease rehearsing with the other girls, which suddenly became a convenience for her lessons with her elusive Angel. She had yet to see his face, but had basked in the assured glory of a being so gifted as to transform her rusty hinges into the dulcet voice of seraphim. She was nevertheless grateful for his attention; his slow, steady tolerance of her oft times careless mistakes.

He became the one slightly awkward thing in her more than slightly awkward life that made any sort of sense to her. He taught her to sing with her heart and even her soul, and she in turn pledged nothing but the utmost adoration and gratitude for him. A willing slave to his whim, she of course questioned not if he had some hand in her leave from rehearsal, but instead resolved to work even harder to claim the role of Elissa as her own.

And yet, there was Carlotta.

The woman strutted across the stage like an inflated peacock, her great billowing skirt and robes trailing around her and keeping those that dared to venture close at a calculated distance. _Poor Piangi_, Christine thought to herself as she awaited her entrance from the wings. The overweight whipping boy had to have the assistance of four or five people to conquer the giant stage elephant constructed for the first scene, and even his very own Carlotta was snickering at him! The chorus girl sighed when Meg approached, pointing out the scene onstage with a smile in her voice. "An echo of Carlotta, perhaps? He climbs and he climbs and still the buffoon reaches not the top." The blonde broke into a fit of snickers at her own remark, leaning into her friend.

Oh, the glory of listening to that heavenly voice every day, of molding it into something that could make the angels weep. And sometimes…_her_ Angel had. It had become a pattern: When the sun set and the house closed, she was his and his alone. How often he had cursed for the hours to go by faster and for that damnable ball of blinding light to set beyond the Parisian landscape. Be it conversation or lessons, he enjoyed every minute of it. To have contact with another, to be needed, and wanted, even if it was torment to be so near with but a bit of glass separating them, or in the expanse of the auditorium.

Days turned to weeks, but it seemed like years had passed since he had first seen the clumsy girl trying to screech her way through rehearsals. Now…now she could bring the greatest singers to shame – in his opinion, at least. And though he was biased, it was only _his _opinion that mattered. Her acting lessons had been taken care of too, ensuring that she was able to perform each step and gesture elaborately so those in the back, and the higher rows would be able to see without straining with the opera glasses.

With the days of the opera approaching, he wasn't too surprised to gain the Madame's words of worry, and informed her – much to her relief – that Christine would be around for rehearsals. During that same meeting he had learned that the two 'friends' of the manager were making their appearance as well. This time as the new managers. Surely the woman didn't know what to make of his smile before he melded back into his home; the shadows.

Though the sun was still high, he lurked within the auditorium, watching in his usual shrouded silence, simply awaiting the perfect moment to force his plans into action. Already the understudy had come down with a terrible illness – _someone _had harmlessly poisoned her food – and if he got his way, it would be Christine on center stage tomorrow evening.

The stagehands had at last shoved Piangi onto his cushioned perch atop the make-believe beast, each man of blue collar strength moving to wheel the beast off into the flies. The stage cleared quickly, Reyer signaling from his place in the pit to the orchestra. This being her cue, Carlotta instantly puffed out her more than healthy breasts, sailed with about as much grace as a crocodile onto the lit stage and began her song. Without the immediate accompaniment of the orchestra, her voice was beautiful but, much too overpowering. It likened to the yowling of a cat in Christine's ears.

She grimaced inwardly, glancing around the darkened wing to see if any others shared her contempt and agitation. They had. Even Madame Giry lowered her head disapprovingly, both of her slender hands resting upon the brass knob of her cane. Christine half expected her elder to run onstage and reprimand the over zealous and egotistical Prima Donna for her poor performance, with the way Giry pursed her lips and lifted her icy gaze to the woman. What a sight that would be! Lest she be caught in her contemptuous thoughts, however, a familiar…_presence_ stirred her from her reverie, thankfully, in time. Carlotta had struck a foul note, one that could very well shatter the glass of the chandelier, though the music continued and the chorus entered from each stage left and right.

Never mind the tick, it was a wonder he hadn't gone completely gray by now, with that woman's singing. Or speaking, for that matter. She just had one of those voices that was like nails being drawn over a chalkboard. Not a pleasant sound, in the least. Unless… unless she was shrieking in a start or pure panic.

More than once he had terrorized the woman, hoping to frighten her off. Unfortunately, it had been years and still she hadn't disappeared. Though, for the last two months he had increasingly elevated the 'ghostly' activity around her dressing room and whenever she attempted to sing, even using the very crude method of writing 'Not Elissa' on her boudoir wall with rat's blood. And still…still that screeching bat lingered.

What would it take, short of her death, to get rid of her?

Absently he regarded the stage which was now elaborately set up for tomorrow's production. The painters had done an excellent job in projecting the feel of the setting. Grimacing when another off pitch note was struck, he gained a great deal of satisfaction when he heard the music preceding the entrance of the chorus girls. At least that meant she'd shut up for a minute or two. From afar – always afar – he looked upon Christine, watching her quietly before the arrival of three men gained his attention and there it stayed as former and present managers conversed.

Christine bounded onstage, energetic and alive as she twirled within the melodies of the music and sang out the chorus lines. Lines she had yet to learn. Her rehearsals for a role she was promised to play had taken from her the time to learn her intended role. Words came here and there, but with each note her voice was strong, threatening to leap upon the scales into Carlotta's. It took a great deal of strength to keep from singing out Elissa's part, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment as she thanked the gods for having been blocked towards the back.

The great swell of music accompanied her singing, her lithe form lacing betwixt her companions as they sang out the jubilation of a returned hero.She moved to the front of the procession, next to Meg, and the blonde's trained manner of dance paled her own in comparison. She fell out of step here and there, an echo of her former self, though she watched not her stumbling feet but the audience before her, lifting with her voice the evidence of her tutelage after the men completed their thundering chorus. "_Hear the drums! Hannibal comes."_

Hearing the faint sound of clattering off to his right he glanced away from the managers to the stage hand that was making his way up the latter to the catwalk. With the fluid grace of silk he made the faintest of movements, drawing himself deeper into the enveloping shadow as he precariously balanced upon a thin beam. No one in their right mind would be walking upon that two inch wide length of wood, not without a fear of falling the two, or so stories below and breaking their necks upon that hardwood floor.

He stood there, poised, cat like, watching Buquet with half lidded eyes. Unscrewing the cap from his flask Buquet took a great swig of whatever liquor he had in there for the day – or would that be hour? This sight didn't interest him for very long as his slitted gaze turned back toward the managers. He focused then, more on the movement of their lips than trying to hear them over the singing going on below.

"S_ad to return_," Piangi belted out. "_To find the land we love, threatened once more by Romm..e's far reaching grasp!" _Reyer looked significantly pleased when the obese man finally got that last letter correct, and just in the nick of time. Lefevre was explaining to the men about the opera that was soon to be performed, and reluctant to interrupt the rehearsals he glanced over the stage with a bit of a frown, searching for Madame Giry. Sometimes that woman and her cane unnerved him.

Despite her joyous appearance, the uncomfortable weight of her costume and the ever tugging lure to that familiar presence had unintentionally thrown her. As her line became prominent at centre stage, it was a struggle for little Christine to keep up. She caught a glimpse of Giry in the wings, rapping her cane to the floor and barking out over the music "You! Christine Daae! Concentrate, girl!" She was trying, really she was. Her focus was thrown because of the observing men, their place of position blocking the end of troupe from their assigned positions.

Again, the icy control in Giry's voice lifted over Reyer's instruction. "Gentlemen, please! If you would kindly move to the side?" There was poison in her tone, not only agitated by Christine's sudden lack of focus but the men who had so carelessly stomped into a clearly marked closed rehearsal auditorium. Managers or not, she held years on the men in the Opera.

"My most sincere apologies, Madame Giry." Lefevre lifted his voice, allowing the lurking Phantom to hear it quite clearly. He moved the duo of managers aside, and the lip reading was taken up again. There was nothing of interest, at least until Richard was curious as to why the man was retiring. Amusement flickered briefly within half lidded eyes when the portly man paled and he slipped from his pocket a bit of cloth to dab at his mottling brow. He always seemed to gain a case of hives when he got nervous.

The other manager seemed more interested in Christine, which caused those eccentric eyes to narrow faintly, though his irritation was quickly slaked when he found the man was simply curious about the woman's name and origins. That twitch finally came when his focus was broken with that elevated wail. "_Once more to my welcoming arms my love returns in splendor!"_ _Oh dear God, just one loose beam, that's all I ask, one loose beam,_ Erik pleaded inwardly.

The corner of his lip lifted in a sneer that closely resembled a silent snarl. By the Gods he _loathed_ that woman! There was no loose beam.. but there was _something_ he could do. The grating grunt of the elephant brought his eyes down again as Piangi sang, then toward Christine his gaze shifted and lingered, softening in that simple placement of attention.

The dance steps had ceased – _thank Heavens!_ – and the climax of the song lifted as several members of the production stepped onstage. Christine lowered to the stage floor next to Meg, her slender limbs extended before her as she bowed gracefully and sang out the last of the song. Carlotta knelt center at Piangi and the elephant's feet, poses of uplifted heroism and adoration struck for the plump specimen of man, powdered heavily, eyes rimmed thick with kohl and head crowned by splendid turban and feather. The perfect opposite to La Carlotta, indeed. His rounded expression boasted a smile of absolute satisfaction and pride, his time to shine – if only for a moment – over his companion.

Little Meg had taken the opportunity to cast a lowered glance towards her friend, shifting several pale strands of blonde hair from her brow. Her eyes questioned her troubled friend, her sudden lack of focus, her shaken demeanor. Christine could only return the gaze helplessly. How could she explain to her the events of the past weeks? Would she believe her, or question her very sanity? Perhaps even think her a foolish girl as Mama Valerius had when she'd told her, unable to contain her joy .. and her confusion. She had sworn the woman to secrecy, even if her kind caretaker but shook her head and murmured something beneath her breath about impetuous and gullible youth now a days.

"Bloody.." the muttered curse had him glance away briefly from Christine as the sound was incredibly close. _Damn it,_ he had lost his focus on his surroundings and now Buquet stood only a few feet away from him, tightening the heavy rope used to keep the backdrop in place. One thin brow lifted. _Hmm..._ Soon enough Buquet skulked off to tend to his drinking and his job. Doing one more than the other, of course. The sharp clapping from Reyer drew his eyes back, the significance of this portion of rehearsals coming to a pause just before Lefevre spoke again.

"Ladies. Ladies! And gentlemen of course." This stated with a smile toward not only the male chorus members but the pianist and stage hands as well. At the end of the song, the chorus lifted and each statuesque performer slunk quickly from their pose to a more comfortable stance that spoke much of their personalities. Carlotta, for instance, was never one to bow or praise anyone but herself. _Especially _Ubaldo Piangi. Her hands quickly formed into fists, placed to her girdled hips as she turned to the spectator who clapped for attention.


	19. Chapter 19

Giving another curse Buquet slunk over to look down – and gained an eye full of Carlotta cleavage. "Mmm...nice." He smacked his lips once, focusing more upon the swells of flesh rather than Lefevre's words: "As you know I've been seeking to retire, today will be that day." Without waiting for the gasps of shock, he continued. "Please, let me introduce your new managers." Moving aside he gestured to the duo who revealed their best grins, for suddenly they were in the spot light. "Richard Firmin and Moncharm-" The other cleared his throat. "Gilles, my middle name. Much easier to remember." With a bow of his head, Lefevre chuckled. "Yes, yes, of course."

Turning slowly, Carlotta's attention immediately grabbed Lefevre, and .. oh, his _friends_, the new managers! As if on cue, the Prima Donna primped her wig and, she sighed ardently, beaming from ear to ear, as did her companion who sweated from his short trek off the elephant. The chorus girls all stood and gathered near Madame Giry who had approached from the wings, each chattering with gossip at Lefevre's announcement, before quieting again to hang onto his next words. Each set of wide eyes traveled in unison to the managers, even Giry who applauded softly. Following their instructor's lead, the chorus girls applauded politely, as did various other stagehands scattered around the stage.

"Gilles Andre," he continued, trailing off when he saw the diva making her way forward. Meanwhile, up in the wings, Buquet very nearly tumbled from his spot when his eyes remained glued upon the Diva. The silent watcher did well to keep his disgust reined in. "Gentlemen, I'd like to introduce to you Signora Carlotta Giudicelli," He lifted his hand, motioning to the vividly garbed woman who had decided to make her presence known and Moncharmin gushed, much to the jealousy of Signor Piangi, who continued to watch. "She has been our leading soprano for five years, almost si-." He was quickly cut off when Andre neared and began speaking his praises.

"Oh, I had wished to approach you during the gala! I have seen all of your greatest roles, Signora." _I won't be too surprised if she says all of her roles were great, _was dryly thought and golden eyes shifted over toward Piangi who nearly looked like a ladybird; his face was becoming so red. "And Signor Ubaldo Piangi, our leading tenor." While Andre gushed, Richard was a bit more formal and he nodded to the costumed man. His friend and coworker completely ignored him, which only ticked off Ubaldo further. "My dear diva, would you mind terribly performing for us? If I'm not mistaken there is an aria in the later acts of the opera. Unless anyone else objects?" As Monsieur Andre glanced around, in the shadows lips pressed thin._ This..is going to be painful._

Christine observed this scene quietly, the applause having died down and with it the significance of the chorus girl in this snobbish interlude of flattery. Carlotta, though – oh, she was very much enjoying this new manager. She smiled with acerbic sweetness, her feat at feigning humility only further more evidence of her horrendous acting skills. With his request, she curtsied rather deeply, those aforementioned assets of her womanhood in plain view of her adoring new superior.

Voice thick with foreign lineage, she spoke in a commanding and thunderous tone, loud enough for the very back row of the emptied auditorium to hear: "Of course, of course. If my manager commands..?" Her gaze never wavering from the trio, it was astonishing how quickly her demeanor could change. She practically barked out "Monsieur Reyer!" before that trademark grin returned. In the wings, insignificant, Christine sighed.

"What I wouldn't give to stick m'face in those lovelies," came another crack from the peanut gallery in a drunken mumble. The man then grunted and pressed up from his position to wander off. Most likely to get rid of that liquor behind one of the old, dusty sets and blame the stench on the rats. Boorish individual, he was.

Reyer had managed to keep from flinching at her sharp tone and gave a thin smile. "Will two measures be enough of a proper introduction, my diva?" Reyer was a better actor, he made it seem like he really wanted to do this. "Yes, yes. Two will be quite enough," Richard piped in, impatiently. A man after the ghost's own heart, it seemed that he wanted this to be over with as soon as possible.

Sliding his hand from his cloak, keen steel slipped into his fingers, almost magically, and he stepped across the catwalk to the backdrop and the heavy beam that it was connected to. Crouching in a pooling of black, the fedora's rim tipped downward as the sleek metal was tucked beneath the supporting rope, and holding it steady he began to saw through it. He didn't want to suffer through that woman's singing and decided, finally, that she seriously needed to be placed out of her misery. She only needed to stay in that spot.. "Signora, ready?" With his shirt tails kicked up, Reyer settled back upon the bench, fingers poised over the piano's keys.

Carlotta strutted forward, the great orange feather stuck within her head dress quivering with the movement as she readied herself. Readied indeed. The Prima Donna hadn't taken the time to really seriously consider her art since her early days in the Opera House. She nodded to Reyer with a commanding, flourished gesture of her hand before the light chords of the aria began. Christine's heart dropped with this scene. Carlotta singing the words she herself had wept forth, on this very stage, in that very spot so many nights ago.

Her slender arms wound around her bared abdomen idly, her weight distributed from one shapely hip to the other as the chorus girls inched forward to idolize – in their ignorant brains – the splendor of La Carlotta. The moment the boisterous woman's voice fled her mouth, all was lost. _No feeling, no depth or understanding of the words she sings! _Christine was half tempted to chuckle aloud at how her teacher's guiding remarks had left such an impact on her. Still, no amount of silent scorn or discouragement could put an end to the widely overdone soprano's singing.

Those below were polite enough not to cringe at this terrible performance, although the stage hands and those near the back that could hear the singing.. that was a different story all together. What made it worse was that with the auditorium being so empty, and the lack of a full orchestra, her voice echoed and reverberated with annoying strength.

"_When you find that, once again, you long to take your heart ... " _The rest of Carlotta's words never came. In the moment between verses, a force from above proved one to be reckoned with. Meg, of all people, noticed the tumbling beam and expansive canvas first. She'd glanced about in boredom, all too accustomed to Carlotta's showing off, when the sudden movement caught her eye and much too slowly she released a scream that shattered the otherwise tranquil air – that is, if one didn't count Carlotta's singing.

Christine and the surrounding line girls all but jumped from their skin, Giry moving to reprimand her daughter when she too eyed the beam that had, by then, landed inches before Carlotta. The Prima Donna gave a great screech of fright, lurching forward and stumbling over the beam. Her wired skirt flew heavenward, a spray of gold, emerald and ruby as Piangi quickly rushed to her side. The stage became an instant maelstrom, the chorus girls teetering nervously about as they all expressed their opinion of the culprit – "It's him! The ghost! The Phantom of the Opera!" What fantastic words Buquet had taught them to label the mysterious figure within the depths of the Opera with. Christine scurried to Meg's side, clutching her arm nervously as the pair watched the scene before them, mindful of any other falling devices.

Looking down upon the ruckus he slunk along the beam, drawing himself back to the thickness of the shadows he had left just moments ago and just in the nick of time. Buquet was returning from his ..evacuating. It took him a moment to realize that something was wrong up there, mostly the pegs that held the canvas' ropes were empty and the that was screeching going on down below. Groaning upon hearing them call for him, he rubbed his face, knowing they wouldn't hear any of his explanations. Not because of the flurry of sound, but Lefevre was just that stubborn when wanting to blame him for something – anything than blaming it on the ghost.

Erik was more than satisfied when he saw Carlotta storming away, nearly in tears.. and of course followed by that poor sap Ubaldo. "Well," Lefevre began, looking ten shades paler with red splotches upon his pug face. "I believe my work here is done. I wish the both of you good luck, and if you happen to need me, I'll be in Frankfurt." Monsieur Firmin just stared at the manager as he made a hasty exit. Then, lost, he turned his attention to Andre who was dusting off a shirt sleeve after moving the beam aside. "This is only a minor problem. I'm sure she'll be back later. Then, perhaps, we'll get to hear the whole song." He didn't happen to hear the mumble from Richard that matched the beam croucher's thoughts. _Oh. Joy. Oh. Rapture._

The chaos settled with the departure of Carlotta and Piangi's, trailed by their entourage who in vain tried to console the shaken Prima Donna. Left with the new managers, those that remained of the company looked to their superiors in silence before Madame Giry stepped suddenly from the ranks of the chorus girls who huddled around her. Her voice was steady, _knowing_ as she spoke: "You believe so, messieurs?" She ventured further towards them, her black skirts ruffling as she did. "I have a message, messieurs. From the Opera Ghost."

_Opera Ghost?_ The duo glanced to each other and attempted not to burst out in laughter. All of these people were superstitious. First it was the clumsy stage hand, then the girls and now this. Note from an unseen patron? Andre was the first to break out into faint laughter, and Richard coughed into his hand. "Oh ya won't be laughin' when 'e gets to ya. Gets to ya real good, 'e will. Hauntin' and droppin' beams," Buquet, who had descended from above, gave his own warning right there, mostly because he saw it posed an opportunity to get those lovelies to huddle close to him. He grinned, and taking up one of the nearby ropes he fashioned a make-shift noose then swung it back and forth.

Shrugging a slim shoulder as if this was an every day occurrence – in a manner of speaking, it almost was – the Madame continued. "He simply wishes to welcome you to his opera, and demands that you keep Box Five open for him. Also, his salary is due." Giry delighted in the expressions of the men at her remarks, quick to put them firmly in their place – the offices, rather than the company itself. "Twenty thousand francs a month, and I'm sure with a new patron like the Vicomte de Chagny, you can afford that or perhaps even more."

It wasn't Buquet's words that moved the men to silence, no. It was the amount that this 'ghost host' demanded. Richard choked, but Andre simply brushed it off. "Madame Giry," he started with a sigh, then scowled harshly in her direction. "I wanted to make the announcement of the Vicomte. It was to be a surprise, actually. He's taken great interest in this house and wanted to linger among the crowd tonight without others knowing that he was around." _New patron as well? _This should prove interesting, especially when it was someone as high as a viscount. Very interesting indeed.

Giry shifted her attention to Monsieur Andre quickly. "Is the Vicomte here tonight, or will he be at the performance tomorrow evening?" The chorus girls whispered behind her, Christine and Meg mumbling amongst themselves about this news while the others giggled and cast their wary glances towards the leering Buquet and his swinging noose. Giry's brows lifted in mild interest, contemplating then the misfortune of a shaken Prima Donna and her ill understudy. She remembered the girl's clandestine lessons and resolved herself to this new revelation. _That devil, he's frightened Carlotta out of the role of Elissa to replace her with Christine Daae!_ It was much too clear now and still much too alarming. She stood quietly, her thoughts silent as she awaited a response from the managers.

"_Tomorrow_ evening? Oh no, no. That just won't do. We'll have t-..." The complaining Richard was cut off by the controlled tone of his co-partner. "It would be best to move the schedule back. Why, Carlotta is in no shape to be singing." Richard frowned deeply, "But-..." And again was silenced as his friend turned away to speak to Madame Giry. "Yes, yes he will. In our box, matter of fact." He offered her a charming smile and a comforting pat to Richard's shoulder who sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose slowly. This was seriously doing nothing for his nerves. Just when he thought that they had a sane investment, 'ghosts' begin throwing around beams. How _absurd_!

"There is an understudy, yes?" Sliding his hand from Richard's shoulder, the older gentleman focused his attention solely upon the Madame. And here...here amber eyes slitted in regained focus. His voice was heard not by his student, but by the young ballerina, Meg. "Christine has been taking lessons," he whispered, the voice so soft, so close to her ear, that she could have believed that it was her own thoughts.

The Dance Mistress nodded slowly, shifting away from the odd pair and lingering once more in thought. Christine stood quietly watching, hugging herself as the girls around her chattered of the fallen beam and the ghost who planted a cursed on the Opera House. Little Meg, gifted dancer that she was, hardly lacked the self control and composure of one her age. She jumped slightly at the voice, surely the whim of a thought, and hurriedly moved towards the managers and curtsied, pleased with her revelation. "Christine Daae could sing the role, Sir." She graced the two with a charming smile, careful to avoid the gaze of her friend who, snapping from her reverie, looked on bewildered by Meg's referral.

Giry herself even seemed pleased by her daughter's mention of the gifted chorus girl, lifting a palm to rest on young Christine's arm gently as she moved to stand at her daughter's side. The two were perfect images of the era. Meg, the vibrant youth consumed by freedom and fantasy. Giry, the icy instructor who had long ago lived her days of glory and now passed along her torch to a body much more capable than her own. Christine looked on, her cheeks flushing.

Slowly his lips curled into a sly smile before it faded away as he watched Buquet finally pry himself away from the entourage of girls, dragging one along with him that was clinging for dear life against his jerkin.

If he had a shred of pity left for others, he would be feeling it at this precise moment. He lost faith, hope and tolerance for humanity one person at a time. His chin tipped down, allowing him to see the others clearly before he pressed back against the wall behind him. Everything was going so well. Now Christine just had to sing and not let nervousness settle within her senses. Dubiously Richard glanced from Andre, who shrugged, to Meg and Giry, only to finally settle his attention upon Christine with a grimace.

"But she's a chorus girl. Most of them are tone dea-oofm..!" Blinking at the elbow that suddenly landed between his ribs, he cast a glare at Andre who held his hands out in apology. "What he means is that chorus girls usually do not have the same vocal training as divas. It takes many, many years of practice and operas.." He gestured aimlessly.

"Let her sing for you, Monsieur." Giry spoke swiftly, ignoring his insult as she gestured Christine forth. "She has been well taught." A lump formed in the girl's throat, her hands suddenly trembling as she looked with wide, fearful eyes from Meg to Giry to the managers and back again. This was certainly different than singing in the darkness, entranced by the command of her Angel, her Erik.

As she approached, she lifted her glance to Meg who was beaming sweetly, encouraging her with the lift of her brows as she nudged her forth with the tips of tiny fingers. She had half a mind to agree with Monsieur Andre and leave it at that, flee to the security of her dressing room, and face the brunt of her teacher's scolding, if only to be safe from this current state.

The eyes of the chorus girls and the stage hands were upon her, none so deft as to suspect that something had certainly changed within the diminutive ingénue.


	20. Chapter 20

It wasn't the harshness of his tone she wanted; it was always the kinder, warm caress of words that encouraged her, words that came now in a mere hush. "Now is your chance," he closed his eyes, tipping his head back against the wood. He didn't need to see her to be able to throw his voice. The talent was perfected, and had been since he was a child.

"Sing for me, my Christine. Sing and let the angels weep." With all the allure that voice held, the hypnotic sweetness, he could have been speaking close to her ear, his arms around her, urging, becoming that unseen driving force. Now, _now _was her chance to take the spot as diva, to do what he had prepared her to do for months now.

His voice came as the soothing cure to her clenched nerves, suddenly and without warning. Each rise and fall of his deeply enthralling words served as the gentle caress she so craved there in the dark of her dressing room, or upon stage as she sang to reach her father in Heaven, to reach her Angel of Music who lingered, so cleverly unknown to her, closer and closer with each passing day. However, she was exposed in the harsh glow of the footlights and the scrutiny of many occupants, Meg and her mother the only supporters she felt she had.

Both of the managers frowned deeply, giving each other one more glance before shifting their collective gazes over toward Reyer, who seemed to be watching this with extreme boredom. When he looked upon her he straightened up and lifted a graying brow when Andre gave a nod. Firmin threw up his hands and made his way to one of the velvet seats to sit down unceremoniously, much akin to a petulant child he folded his arms over his chest. It might have been his partner that sang Carlotta's glories, but he was more worried about losing money.

With a kind smile Reyer turned to Christine, lowering to sit behind the piano's worn keys. _Hmm, maybe with a new patron they could get another piano as well. "_I'll start in the same spot, Mademoiselle. Two measures before the beginning of the aria. Ready?" He waited only a few seconds before his fingers began skimming across the ivory.

Her gaze moved to Reyer, her thicket of curls shifting along her collar as she nodded; she was ready. In that moment when his words brushed her ear and she was assured he was near, she could sing now with all of the strength of the hereafter. He gave her a soul, and wings with which to set it to flight. As the airy chords of the song signaled her cue, that glorious voice spilled forth over the threshold of her tongue and lips cautiously, testing its strength as the verses continued. The determination and building confidence lifted from within her, as if he was in the very depths of her spirit, pushing from her all of the pain, all of the glorious sadness, the misery she had slowly consumed herself with, and now ... now the blissful mystery of her teacher, her Erik.

"When I get home, I am going to need a tonic. A very strong tonic. My nerves are shot. See, my hands are shaking." Chuckling deeply, Andre went over to his 'trembling' friend and settled nearby when the young woman began singing. The first few lines were unsure, but it was expected. At least by one of the managers. "You're going to go completely gray if you keep worrying yourself. Your precious money is safe," was whispered, soothing the shaking with that proclaimation. Or maybe it was her voice. It wasn't as overbearing as Carlotta's. In fact…it wasn't powerful at all, or grandiloquent. But clear and resonant.

There was more than one set of surprised eyes upon her, but while others might have been slack jawed, her tutor was smiling. So it began. But what about after _Hannibal_? He couldn't keep frightening others to put her into the roles. If he kept with her training, then she'd be able to sing her way through the season. He found that he liked that idea, immensely. Everything was going so perfectly.

Bless her, she was singing for a ghost! As her voice leapt easily over the notes Carlotta had screeched forth, she garnered more than her share of excited whispers from the wings. Her eyes closed, her crossed palms pressed to her breast as her sweet and almost angelic voice rang out in the empty auditorium. Charming, she was the picture of the Opera's new starlet. Her cheeks flushed, her bright eyes constantly filled with some new wonder to be seen, her body was supple and firm in her blossoming youth.

She could feel his heavy gaze upon her, prayed that he was pleased by her efforts. The orchestra had joined her by now, swelling notes carrying her voice as the musical interlude gave her the short amount of time to fix her gaze upon the managers, charming as she sang once more the previous verse, conquering the end scales as her teacher had instructed.

There was complete silence from the two of them before Andre gave a very curious look toward Christine. "Just … who has been your tutor?" Firmin, that incorrigible man, piped in again. "I dare say she's much better than your Carlotta." That earned him a sharp glance, to which he grinned broadly. It was true, Carlotta's voice had hurt the man's ears. Andre must have been deaf not to be able to hear the God-awful tone that was screeched from that woman's lungs.

There was no fear of her telling who it was, they had a silent agreement. Not many would believe her if she told them that she was getting voice lessons from someone she had never seen, who seemed to be every where yet no where at the same time, who seemed to speak within her mind, her dreams.. Oh yes, he had her resting more and more often in her dressing room.

Though it was cold, there was a bit of luck on her part when no one claimed the blanket she had found lying haphazardly upon the ground outside of her alcove. Warm and filled with expensive goose down, he would have simply stole it from the liar that claimed it, only to drop it back at her door. It was hers, purchased with his own money. "You did well, Christine. I am proud." He dared to speak again, blessing only her with that silken tenor.

She was quite winded by the aria, her breath coming quickly as Meg rushed to her side and clutched at her arm. The smile she cast toward her reassured Christine of her success, though with the manager's question a seriousness came over her expression. She thought on how to explain herself, prepared for whatever remarks might come, and spoke at last. "I … don't know, Monsieur." It was partially true. Outside of a name and the time he had lived in the Opera, she knew little of her Angel.

She was saved from any further questions by Madame Giry, though the string of laughter that filtered from both the chorus and orchestra alike touched in her a strand of embarrassment. The elder took her free arm, gesturing Meg away as she explained to each new manager slowly. "Will she be singing for you tomorrow then, Messieurs? If so, Mademoiselle Daae certainly needs her rest."

Andre lifted a brow slowly "How can someone _not _know their tutor?" he mumbled low, leaning to his partner. "Maybe she's being taught by this benevolent ghost?" He smirked faintly, then chuckled seeing the look on Monsieur Andre's face. Then they lifted their voices, nearly in unison: "Yes." Firmin continued, "she'll do quite well. I agree with pressing for tomorrow, we have changes to make and such." He sighed deeply, imagining those francs flying away on gilded wings.

"If you'll excuse us, Madame." Both of them lifted from their seats and gave a slight bow at their waists. They would have to tend to everything and fast. Making their way to the exit, they were ignorant of the pair of eyes that tracked them from above. Finally he moved from his leaning spot, easily crossing over the thin beam as if he was walking on flat ground. It was time for him to meet the new diva in her dressing room.

As the trio – Giry, her daughter, and Christine – watched the pair leave, the staged cleared of retreating chorus girls and stage hands. In the crowded wings, employee and dancers alike climbed the stairs to the lounge where it was assured some sort of entertainment could be found. New found divas were suddenly old news.

Leading the faint child by the hand, Giry motioned with her free arm towards the stairs. "Meg, meet me in the lounge. I will accompany Christine to her dressing room." The blonde did as instructed, casting a glance over her shoulder in sympathy and still lingering pride for her friend. As they reached the darkened corridor, the Dance Mistress released her hold of Christine's hand and motioned her forward. "Go, rest. You will need your strength and your voice for tomorrow." And with that, she turned and drifted in the opposite direction towards the stairwell that would take her to her office.

There was no reason to pause from the auditorium to her room. He had no interest in furthering the claims of his appearance by frightening the little chorus girls, or anyone else that might have been unfortunate enough to gather even a sliver of his attention. He had taken the back way, the corridors and alleys that were hidden among the walls of the opera house, while she had to descend a duo of floors just to get to the level of the dressing rooms, avoiding people on the way there as well as taking round about courses. He hadn't been accosted by busy hallways and was able to reach her room a few moments before she came inside.

Christine went as instructed, supporting herself along the wall until she reached her door. Turning the lock, she entered and closed the door behind her, sealing herself in as she quickly made to change out of her costume. She didn't even wait to remove her silken stockings behind her dressing screen. Unfastening the inexpensive garter belt from around her thigh, she lowered her weary form to the chaise and sighed his name: "Erik …"

Almost instinctively he turned his head when she began getting undressed, and idly studied his shirt as it melded easily with the darkness of his cloak and the surrounding gloom. Upon hearing her voice he glanced over toward her briefly, then returned to regarding his shirt. "I am here, my dear. How do you feel?"

She leaned forward to unfasten her shoes, sliding them off with a great sigh of relief. For a moment she sat and flexed her toes and the arch of her dainty feet, before standing all together and testing their endurance for the next day as she moved towards her dresser. Retrieving a box of matches from the top drawer, she set about lighting the few candles that had burned down low in their silver fixtures upon the oak surface. The light offered some warmth in the room, and as she set the box aside and gathered her chemise and undergarments, she retreated behind the dressing shade as she spoke, a smile in her voice. "As if I could fly."

The folding concealment did well in keeping anything from being seen, but it didn't matter. An eccentric former-murderer he might be, but he was a gentleman. The shirt had once more become an object of his attention, and he brushed his fingers along the crisp cloth, getting rid of a bit of unseen debris and dust from the surface.

It took her several moments to undress herself; the costumes were fitted closely, and thus had to be practically sewn onto her slender form. She struggled to undo the clasp at the back of her rather revealing bodice but succeeded at last, covering herself with the white fabric of her camisole. Atop that, her slipped her chemise and boned girdle. Slipping on her robe, she moved from behind the tall screen at last and returned to her perch upon her chaise. "Me, to sing as Elissa tomorrow night. I could almost see my father's smile when I closed my eyes."

Curling his fingers in the expensive cloth of the cape, he drew it around him, a habitual thing even if the chill of the air didn't affect him. Raising his eyes slightly he settled the intense gaze upon the wall off to his side, as if he expected to see anything besides the crevice that was long ago built for a lantern to be placed inside. "As per my word. You have been prepared, and now the role is yours." With these words a hint of a smile crossed over his lips and he folded his arms loosely over his chest, his fingers curling against his elbows. "The audience will adore you."

A smile stretched upon her pallid lips, her eyes aglow with her previous glory before the audience of the managers and her fellow chorus companions. The pride she heard in his words reassured her, set her in a determination to soar on the wings he had so intricately framed her with. With the aforementioned smile, came the faintest trace of curiosity as her gaze lifted to eye her reflection in the mirror warily. "_Only_ the audience, dear friend?" What of him? Would he at last reveal to her the depths of his mystery, finally find himself comfortable in sharing more of himself than he had before.

She had certainly shared her own spirit, whether willingly or not. Over the months, he'd consumed her thoughts. He was the driving force behind each of her pursuits, the voice that, at first, was faint but then grew stronger in her sleep; singing to her … calling her name. Could she at last gain the same adoration from her secret and strange Angel? Christine sighed and fingered idly the lace accents of her robe, regretting she'd ever spoken the words.


	21. Chapter 21

Her question brought his chin to rise and eyes to settle upon her. No more than three feet away, directly in reaching range, it was that one sided mirror that kept them apart. The bane of his existence ever since he had first laid eyes upon the monster in the glass, one he was determined to get rid of ... until he found out that _he _was that creature. "You would wish more?" It was a habit with him, answering a question with a question, wanting to learn more of her mind, her way of thinking. Infuriating, undoubtedly.

His weight shifted subtly, just enough to send draping cloth in a gentle lap against the side of his shoes. Raising a hand he slowly rubbed across his lips, fingertips brushing against porcelain with each thoughtful, right-ward stroke. Of course he adored her; she was his student, one that was blossoming quite well into a diva beneath his very eyes. It mattered not what the others thought. Let them wonder at her sudden talent.

She sat silently for a long while, unsure and thrown by his returned question. Surely he knew of her devotion? Was it so hard to see, to hear in the way she sang nightly for him? Christine stood, moving uneasily towards her dresser as at last she spoke, bemused. "You are a riddle, dear Erik." There was a sigh in her words, her eyes heavy as she sat upon the small stool and studied her reflection, thrice gazing back at her. What promise could he have seen in such an unremarkable child? Her beauty was certainly that of an ingenue, and could such a one live in the shoes of a Prima Donna? She'd certainly find out tomorrow night, when the rather bland dressing room would become swamped with bouquets with letters attached that showered adoration – just as he had promised.

Her answer brought a tug to the corner of his mouth and he lowered his hand to rest it back beneath the cloak. Loosely curling his fingers against his elbow again he regarded her silently from beneath that felt brim. While she considered herself unremarkable, he actually believed her not unpleasant to look upon. She was no vibrant, ravishing beauty, though she wasn't hideous to look upon either. A perfect balance, comely, and demure, which only made her ever the more alluring with an innocence he had never achieved since birth.

"Why is that, Christine?" came a voice from the dresser, the brush that lay upon it, in fact. He was a man of simple desires sometimes, and watching her do something as minor as brushing her hair pleased him. More than once he had attempted to draw himself from this growing infatuation, from this woman that treated him like a human, though she believed him to be some Celestial Being. If only she knew just how far from that he was.

How could she begin to explain his mystery? It was such that he drew from her every ounce of spirit when she sang, her heart open to his scrutiny while she in turn could but adore him in vain, resigned to the often absurd moments of speaking praise to hard, unfeeling air, dreaming of things that would never be, the frustration of a climb without a conquer. She thought of poor Piangi, and all of his adoring overtures towards a woman who could think of nothing but herself. Poor Christine, if anyone was to be consumed in such woeful restless anguish, it was she!

She touched the comb with her fingertips suddenly, running her palm over the teeth slowly as she spoke softly. "You lurk in shadow, when a wonder such as yourself should descend from Heaven. Why?" _What are you punishing yourself for, dear Erik?_

His lips tilted again, but this time in an almost wistful, yet bitter manner. It was a good question, one that he couldn't answer immediately. There was actually a rather long moment of silence as he considered how he should respond. Then he opted for a simple, "some things are better left unseen." The softness of his tone then shifted toward a more curious one. "It is said that it is frightening to behold an angel, a being who acts as God's wrath, one wing dipped in purity, the other in blood. Often, when you read the Bible, He sends His angels when someone needs punished. Would you truly wish to meet one, face to face?"

It was ironic; him speaking of God. A ..thing he shunned so long ago. Drawing his eyes from her, he followed her hand to the comb, then turned his gaze to the mirror that she stood near. Often he wondered if she saw something when she studied the mirror he was behind. _Perhaps...perhaps, she can sense me here,_ he thought. And sense him she could. The heat and the weight of his eyes rested heavily on her, just beyond where she sensed that presence almost nightly. She spoke of it not, however, for fear he'd flee as he had weeks, _months _ago. How time had passed, a blur of endless encounters that felt as distant as a dream but still rested warm upon her mind, a ray of hope in a world otherwise desolate and colorless despite the vibrant surroundings.

She listened carefully to each of his words, enthralled by his short tale as she had been so many years ago when she and a friend had read to each other the dark stories of the North and her father spoke of goblins and great kings, of gypsies and the Angel of Music. Of _Erik. _She lowered her hand from the dresser's surface, standing as she spoke softly, lovely doe eyes wide. "I would. I fear I deserve punishment for my sin." And what sin was that? What catastrophe of impurity could such a bright angel be stained by? She wasn't good enough, she reasoned. She would never reach the caliber of her Angel's voice, his wisdom, his instruction. To prove herself worthy of his guidance, worthy of his praise, she must surely sing with the abandon he so gracefully poured forth, even in his very manner of speech and the power with which he held her enthralled, _enslaved._

"Sin?" He continued to look upon her reflection, studying every nuance of her face as she stood before the vanity's mirror. "What sin would that be, my dear?" Genuinely curious, the tilting of his head would have proved this, if she could see it. But that time would never come, not if he could help it. He would remain her unseen teacher, closer than she would ever have guessed.

What would she think if she knew he had been behind the mirror, or in the auditorium all along? If he was but a man instead of this angel she believed him to be, he made her believe him to be? She would hate him. Hate him, or fear him. Think him a disturbed man, that he might have gambled her privacy when she slept and dressed. He didn't even wish to think of her shunning and denying him. Closing his eyes he gave a faint shake of his head, as if that would help get rid of the flickers of scenarios that traveled through his mind.

She began to pace slowly, her words low and heated as she explained her previous remark, "My sin, dear teacher, is in my soul! I hold my back straight, I measure my breaths, I close my eyes and I envision a choir of angels accompanying me in my song and still I fail. Still my spirit yearns for ... for ..." She sighed heavily, seating herself rather suddenly on the chaise. "Oh, I do not know. How can I explain this wanting, this restlessness? Never before have I felt it." She wrung her hands nervously, her whole fragile form trembling with excitement as she spoke. A thin wisp of curls shivered upon her shoulders and tumbled in a thicket of russet color over her back and breasts, sharply accentuated by the glowing pallor of her chemise.

Lovely and frail as she was, a delicate flower in a bed of weed and thorns, she served as her own worst enemy – her judgment clouded by insecurities, her nature conflicted by her strange guardian and mentor. The power he influenced her with frightened her in a way; never before had such a man, Celestial Spirit from above or not, entranced and intoxicated her so. She felt as if she might die in his silence; his voice, a heavy sedative that proved sweet to taste but lethal within its deceiving promise of one gentle caress, one tender ... no, there she went again. Quickly she stood, active and alive, and she moved to the center of her dressing room, turning to face the mirror slowly, challenging her own reflection.

The sudden strength and conviction behind her words caused a brow to faintly lift from beneath the veil of porcelain and he tilted his head to the side, in an animalistic curiosity. She seemed troubled and confused about what she wanted and yearned for. He had no suitable answer for her, because he wasn't sure what she was speaking of. He had felt many yearnings in his lifetime, though never something that had to do with his soul or his spirit, or so he believed.

He had just begun to speak when he heard a soft knock at the door, causing Christine to start with a soft yelp – she had been straining to hear his response at the time. Closing his mouth he pressed his lips thinly, and cat-like eyes flicked from her poised form to the door, silently cursing whoever was on the other side of the portal. Didn't people understand that when someone went to their dressing room, they usually wished privacy? "Christine!" _Meg. Of course. _Exhaling a quiet grunt he shook his head gently.

Christine hesitated to move, still somewhat dazed by her encounter with her elusive Angel. At last she mustered the strength, moving hastily to unlock the door and open it, allowing the glow of the light from the corridor to wash over her bare feet. She donned a soft, sudden smile for her friend, though her cheeks were pale and her skin overall lifeless. "What is it, Meg?"

By the way the little blonde was bouncing from one foot to the other, something had caused excitement within the young woman. She clutched an object against her chest; and now handed to it Christine with a near-squeal. A simple envelope stamped with an unmarked seal. "Someone left you a message. He said that you would know who he was. Oh he was so handsome." Behind that mirror, a single brow was slowly lifting. _Someone is giving her messages? _"Open it, open it," Meg begged, inviting herself inside the room as she peeked down at the missive and smoothed her hands against the plain cloth of her dress once the envelope was taken.

Christine took the letter from her friend quickly, busy with examining its exterior as the bustling ballerina hurried in. She closed the door absently behind her, breaking the seal and folding back the parchment slowly as her gaze lifted in slight amusement towards her companion. Surely not an admirer? She had only rehearsed for the managers and several members of the troupe and stage hands, had she not? And, of course, her shadowed Angel.

She thought of him now in hopes that perhaps this letter was from him. _No, of course not, stupid girl. _Was he not watching now, could she not feel the weight of his eyes on her from what seemed every corner of the room? And surely Meg hadn't seen him! No, this letter proved to be worthy of further inspection, her gaze dropping from the blonde to scan slowly over the elegant scrawl, her mouth working silently to form the words.

_You've come a long way from attic stories  
__and childhood fancies. Though, nevertheless,  
__I hope you still have your scarf, Little Lotte.  
__That water was dreadfully cold._

_Sincerely,  
__A friend._

That was all it said in a flowing, almost feminine, script of black ink. Meg was nearly crawling out of her dress to get a better look at what was on the parchment. "What's it say? Who was he? Oh come on, Christine, tell me!" She returned to the bouncing, left to right, right to left, and even _he _had to stare at the child for a few moments. _Just what does she put in her food every morning? _Shaking his head he stepped a bit closer to the mirror, curious, hesitant to speak. Even if he did, he might have been too distracted by the young one. Then again... no he wouldn't have. This letter had roused his curiosity.

_Surely not ... no ..._ Why, she had not seen her childhood companion since she was but a gawkish, insipid little thing, gullible to her father's stories and dancing clumsily to the sway of his violin by the sea. And a red scarf ... and a breeze that carried it into the salty void ... and the boy that retrieved it, soaked through and through and beaming like a rascal, expecting a kiss for a reward. The corners of her mouth turned upward, her eyes lifting to Meg as she folded the parchment slowly, resting it in her lap.

"I dare not say, but I think it's from one of my eldest and dearest friends." Had it been more than friends? Oh, she couldn't remember. The stretch of years did ever so riddle her mind with dreams she had placated for reality; unshed tears, the memorization of verse after verse, dead and unfeeling song and dance was all she recalled of her younger days. The days after her impetuous youth. She opened and re-read the letter once more, reassuring to herself that no other could have penned such an elusive message that spoke of times long ago.


	22. Chapter 22

"Lucky girl," Meg grumbled faintly then gave a soft laugh. "Mother had to lift my jaw from the ground, and I think I nearly took her fingers when I grabbed for the note after she asked me to bring it to you." Since she wasn't asked to leave, Meg decided to make herself comfortable. Stepping over to the mirror, she brushed her hands along her skirts again then adjusted the bodice like top.

She was a pretty, intelligent girl, one with baby fat still lingering upon her rosy cheeks. If only she was able to keep still for more than five minutes, she would be more welcoming to be around. Shifting a step to the side, Erik looked around the youth to the woman-child that had taken to reading the letter again. A friend.. Hopefully it wasn't one that would attempt to draw her from her training. Not when he had her so close to being the prima donna.

Christine, her head bowed still, laughed softly and again folded the letter slowly. Surely it was Raoul, her friend from long ago. Why else would Meg gush as she had? Raoul had always been an attractive boy, sensitive and sweet and every bit a gentlemen and friend. She could understand Meg's excitement. However, as she turned to face her, she found the blonde before the mirror and tensed somewhat, suddenly remembering her Angel was still present, still watching from somewhere. She prayed silently Meg would forget the earlier events. She turned to place the letter in the top drawer of her dresser.

Unfortunately Meg couldn't remain still for long, at least not when it came to one thing; gossip. As if she suddenly remembered, she turned around in a swirl of skirts and approached Christine again. Lowering amidst the pool of cloth she settled in a haphazard kneel, her hands clasped near her breast. "You ... completely took us by surprise today. Oh, the others couldn't keep quiet about it at all! They kept chatting and going on. La Carlotta is surely mad, or will be once she finds out that you took the role. You little upstart."

She grinned broadly. "At least we know the audience won't be clapping simply because the opera is over. And what luck that the canvas dropped on her! That clumsy, but helpful Joseph." There was something in her eyes that spoke of not believing that. She was convinced that it had been 'the ghost' but didn't want to end up being nervous speaking about it. For now.

Christine was hardly oblivious to her friend's_ real _suspicion. Was it not Meg who pointed to the rafters, pinning the blame on the Phantom of the Opera as the other girls chimed in instantly? Was it not Meg who tugged her along hurriedly through dark corridors, or always lingered close by in nothing but the presence of their own souls? Exactly. Christine wasn't fooled by her companion's feigned bravery, her planted assurances – more than likely encouraged by her mother – that it was Buquet, not the Opera Ghost, who had so haphazardly dropped the beam and supported canvas before Carlotta.

To Meg's compliments she but smiled, her cheeks flushing with sudden color. She was a humble creature, a polar opposite of the inflated Prima Donna – rather, the previous Prima Donna. It seemed Christine was to be the shining star of the Opera House, her success the following evening to be immediate and, as her Angel promised, the audience enraptured. She moved to sit on her chaise, watching Meg's movements at the mirror.

Only a few moments had passed before that facade lifted. She lowered her voice, whispering gently. "I think _he_ doesn't like her either. Oh I wish that beam would have hit that little witch." He had to admit, the fire little Meg had was quite amusing sometimes. Just when one believed it was snuffed out, it came flaring back to life in a breath's time. Drawing closer to the mirror, a bit more than before, Meg leaned forward and brushed a dark lash from her cheek. Resting back again she brushed a few flaxen strands over her ear, then turned toward her friend with a smile. "Maybe this is the last we'll hear of her? I hope so, but I doubt it. Are you all right Christine? You seem a bit..vacant." Finally she noticed that something was off in her friend, and nearing, she placed the back of her hand gently against Christine's cheek in search of clammy warmth. "You're not coming down with anything, are you?"

Watching Meg was like watching a butterfly amidst a field of poppies; her movements were so fluid and yet flighty, her nature amiable and drawing. She was _happy_, untroubled by life and its oft time complicated misadventures. She grew weary just watching little Meg examine herself in the mirror as if to reaffirm her beauty, and looked away, smiling idly – a smile that hardly reached her eyes – at her comments in regards to Carlotta. More troubled by her thoughts than the boisterous Carlotta, it was no wonder Meg had noticed her vague detachment.

She responded with the uplifting of her gaze towards her friend, her palm touching gently to her opposite cheek, perhaps to investigate her health as well. She gave a toss of her mane, lowering her gaze as she spoke softly. "I don't feel ill. I'm just nervous, I suppose." Christine gave a half hearted attempt at a smile, lifting her gaze again to her friend. "How would you feel if the Prima Ballerina had an anvil dropped on her the evening before a show and they told you that you were to perform in her place?" Her brows lifted heavenward, half expecting her little friend's response before it was given. This was Meg; young, impetuous, bubbly Meg. Mischievous little Giry was a skilled dancer and a beauty in her own right, but intelligent.

"Why, you mean if I wasn't already Prima Ballerina?" She winked then gave a brisk turn, sending skirts to swirl about her ankles as she lifted upon her toes, even without the board tipped shoes on. She had done it so often there had to be natural padding in calluses upon the pads. "It depends, I suppose." Stated as she slowly lowered, she thoughtfully pressed her lips together. "Is she like Carlotta? If so, then I do not think I would be dreadfully saddened, or worried. Why, Christine, you're a much better singer than Carlotta, and definitely not as vain, if vain at all! _He _wouldn't drop anything on you."

Quickly becoming tired of the idle chatter, he shifted his weight faintly and gave a half lidded close of his eyes, settling to his own thoughts. Still they lingered upon that note that was given to her. Curious, he was, of this 'friend' that had it delivered by Meg's hand. Irritation easily settled next and his mouth drew to a firm grimacing moue. Who ever this was had best not interrupt his plans for her, his growing diva.

_What if you were given the role unjustly, having not earned it? _Christine dared not question aloud, the presence of her Angel still heavy upon her conscience. No matter how much she adored Meg, her devotion was more for her teacher. She longed to hear his voice, even if in the light conversation. As to her previous thought, one must never assume Christine was ungrateful. With all of her heart she desired nothing but to please her Erik, the Angel of Music her father so long ago promised to send to her. She was merely discontented with her own performance, resolved to please him, to make _him,_ if not the audience adore her, a creature after his own heart.

She watched her friend with mild interest, her thoughts a mess with determination and small flashes of memories in regards to the supposed author of the note. "Ah, well. I suppose we all have to face her ill tempered wrath at least once more. It appears to be my turn." And this was true – if Carlotta wasn't after one of the chorus girls for stepping on her lines, blaming her for a stolen comb or a misplaced pair of slippers, she was barking demands at the stage hands. Christine often thought the woman would bark at the rats that scurried in the cellars beneath the Opera House if ever she saw them.

Or she'd scream bloody murder when a swarm of them suddenly scuttled from her closet. He'd done it, and had a good time laughing about it as well. Her screams were heard many stories below the opera house, and he had swore that if he had been in his lair he would have heard them there too. It was worth hunting down those little buggers. Tapping his finger against his arm impatiently, he regarded Meg as she adjusted her skirts, then with a narrowing of his eyes he subtly moved his lips, and only a second later Meg's head lifted sharply, and she seemed to become a few shades paler. Quite a feat for the already wan girl!

"I.. I m-sh-should go. I believe mother..she.. she is going to call rehearsals again." Where at first it seemed she was going to linger, now she wanted to get out of there fast. Perhaps to go cling to her mother's skirts, or maybe run off to the others to inform them of the latest rumor--that the ghost actually _spoke_ to _her._

She was unprepared for Meg's sudden fit, standing immediately to attend to her. The blonde, usually so alive and chatty, now stammered for her words and hastily moved towards the door. Bewildered, Christine reached out though not in time to touch the arm of her shaking friend. _Erik. _She was tempted to give a roll of her eyes at his little stunt of frightening her poor friend, a girl already paranoid when simply discovering she was missing a shoe.

"Meg?" _The poor thing! _Christine had lost that retained color to her cheeks as well! What was it about this mysterious tutor that frightened her so? His control, his whim of beckoning her to him when he pleased? Or perhaps worse, that she responded quickly to his calls? The months had certainly evolved her feelings towards him. He, the figure of utmost respect and reverence, she, the willing slave to his Song, the captive of his music. Though she was troubled by her friend's state of unrest, the secret place in her – the sin she had spoken of in her soul to no one but the Angel – was somewhat pleased he had risked his exposure to another, if only to rid themselves from the interrupting company of the ballerina.

Hand upon the door's handle, Meg glanced back toward Christine and forced an uneasy smile to her lips. "I'll... see you later this evening, Christine." Quite satisfied that he spooked the girl Erik nodded once to himself. _Good_, now they could get back to the conversation they were having before the young lady interrupted with that missive.

The simple thought caused him to glance in its direction, then back when he heard the door close. He placed his complete focus upon Christine then, the eccentric gaze intense upon the back of her form. Wetting his lips slowly, he took a bit of time to compose his thoughts and words before he spoke – not to mention control the belligerence that dwelt within. The question was given coolly: "…A friend?"

After the door closed, her immediate reaction was to again rush into the figurative embrace of her Angel, his voice the arms that swayed her in sleep. Her thoughts of the next evening were set aside as he spoke, his words seemingly coming from everywhere .. and yet, nowhere at all. It was his way of distracting her, she reasoned, a way to keep her from seeking out what he so carefully wished to keep hidden. Christine could play that game as well. She mimicked Meg's former, very nonchalant motions – she went about tightening the satin tie of her robe, palms brushing the ruffled trim to rid it of invisible wear, standing before the mirror and observing her reflection closely.

Her voice was careful to conceal much, her response as coy as his question. "A childhood friend." Raoul, if her suspicions proved correct. The boy who had rescued her scarf from the sea, fondly calling her 'Little Lotte', had slept near the warmth of the fire along side her as her father played the violin well into the night. They had shared a first kiss, and the birth of a flame. He was a first friend and for so long he had felt like her _only_ friend.

Little to nothing was explained in those words, and it didn't sate his desire to know more. He didn't think others would know, so there was no round about way of finding out just who this person was. Should he worry over the matter? Of course! She was young, spirited, a prime target for the eyes of some boyish youth. He might be one that could lure her away from the stage and into some false promise of happiness, only to keep her around as a beauty upon his arm and maker of his heir. His growl was silent.

"I see," came his response, just as cool as his question, if not completely freezing. "You must stay focused upon your training, Christine. You have come too far to let some childhood interference sway you from your path. Tomorrow is just the beginning." _Calm. Why is this bothering you? Because I worked too damn hard! _Giving another slow rapping of his fingers against the curve of his elbow he glanced beyond her to the door, then slid his gaze back in an idle linger. "Understand?"

Her rather innocent nature held her impaired to his instruction. She could not – for the way in which her mind was naive to the ways of men – understand the singular importance of setting aside a reunion with her former friend to focus on her music. Was she not the very epitome of an apt and willing pupil, a beloved devotee to the Angel of Music? Did she not _believe_ in him, entrust her faith in him as she did God her Father though she was robbed of physical evidence? Was that not faith? Was that not _love?_

Poor Christine, so foolish as to think his temper a mere case of authoritative instruction, rather than of contempt ... rather than of _jealousy_. She found his remarks almost humorous, though she dared not express it. "My friend, an interference?" He was surely a respectable gentleman now, no doubt – it was a wonder to her he even remembered who she was, the passing years evolving her physical traits and eroding memory.

"Yes, an interference. You are young still, child, and easily drawn by long talks of the past that would stretch well beyond rehearsals. You do not have time for such frivolous activities." He could imagine it now, Christine finding that her friend had changed from the boy she knew him as, into a dashing man with perfect features, long flowing hair and charm that could swoon an ice maiden. There was the chance that this very same 'friend' could be seen often, distracting her from her tutoring.. becoming something more. A _lover._

Did he want her for himself? Not in that manner, no. He was becoming angry at the fact that this ... _interloper_ would be able to be in her presence, seen and within reach. "Promise me," he began quietly, then continued with a strength behind the whispered words. "_Promise me _that you will not let anything distract you from your lessons, Christine."

_Frivolous activities? _She was afraid she didn't know what he was getting at, and bewildered by his sudden irritation, she returned to her chaise and sat quite solemnly, troubled by what he suspected. She trusted her Angel as much as she feared him, her mind boggled by his suddenly protective command. However, she would promise him, for the sake of hearing and learning from his beautiful voice. Surely Raoul would understand, if she could tell him. Or perhaps he'd think her mad. Either way, she so longed to see her friend again, if not to remember with him the olden times, then to draw from him some warmth and comfort. She was a desiring, vulnerable maiden and her Angel offered little beyond his presence and voice.

She lifted her gaze into the space before her. Her tongue snaked forth to moisten her lips before she spoke softly. "I promise." A part of her wondered if she really could uphold her vow, though she inwardly chastised herself for being so careless as to forget about her Angel's powers, his ability to be everywhere at once, with eyes all around. Christine was becoming increasingly aware of how Raoul's sudden emergence in her life was not at all a positive one.


	23. Chapter 23

Two words. Those simple two words were all it took to rein in the ire that had built with his thoughts. Exhaling a quiet, pent breath he closed his eyes and rolled his shoulders back, loosening the sleek muscle that had tightened, coiled, akin to a panther ready to pounce. "Good," he said simply, projecting the smile that was on his lips into the lighter tone. "Tonight I wish you to study the libretto, refresh your memory of the movements and songs."

He knew that she had it all packed within her mind, but he wanted to ensure that she wouldn't let her nervousness get to her. "In full costume, as well. Perhaps the ballerina instructor could be your audience?" His weight shifted, fluidly moving from left foot to right, then he stilled completely as he gave a shallow, sideways tipping of his head. "Do you believe you are ready for tomorrow?"

She only nodded idly with his instruction, detached and still somehow entranced, hanging onto every word. Work, work, work – that's all she felt she had been doing for the past month and a half prior to the production, those months spent in the proverbial dark in regards as to who was really playing Elissa. Now that her number was up, she knew the practice was vital, though her thoughts were troubled and her form weary despite her efforts to conceal it.

She stood at his question, glancing briefly to the door before she spoke. "If you tell me that you will be watching, dear Erik, I am ready." His presence alone inspired in her, almost automatically, a drive to soar above all expectations. The thunder of applause would fall on deaf ears, as long as she could know in her heart and sense upon her skin, the weight of his approving gaze.

Slow was the smile that passed over his lips. "I'll be with the angels, my dear." A vague statement that was complete truth. He would be among the statues near his box. Adjusting the cape, he pressed it over his shoulders, allowing him to get more air to his skin. The temperature within the corridors was fickle. The more people that were around, the warmer it tended to be. The cold didn't bother him, though. It never bothered him. "I will be there watching and hanging upon your every word, and when you are through... I will be cheering the loudest." To see her singing before the managers was one thing, but before a crowd of hundreds? His pride would swell with each note, and from the way he spoke, she could tell that even then it was doing that very thing.

Such expectations set! She grew somewhat fearful she would disappoint him, though the confidence he had instilled in her over the months of her training outweighed the fear and willed strength into her determination. She would perform as Elissa, as he had promised. And if he promised to watch over her as she sang, than sing she would to make even the mighty Seraphim weep in envy of her voice.

She grew distant from the outside world as he spoke, his soft reassurance lulling her into submission as she sat again on the lounge and closed her eyes, imagining the scene. The auditorium filled, great gowns of satin intermingled with coat tails and pressed starch, top hats, red and gold the only distinguishable colors from behind the glare of the footlights. As her spirit soared with the words of her aria, she'd shift across the stage in her gown of glorious, celestial white – stars entwined in her thicket of curls, eyes bright, her glorious voice not her own as the Angel of Music possessed her, body and soul. She was the vessel to his captive song. "What a sight I shall be, Erik ... all because of you…"

He shook his head gently. "If it was not for your attentiveness, my lessons would have meant nothing. It was a combined effort, my dear." He couldn't take all of the glory from her singing. She needed the build up, the boost to go out there. They weren't false, his words. Brutally honest at times, he lied only when he truly needed to. Though the way he played chess with his words, often he didn't need to lie, people eventually became frustrated.

Surprisingly, sometimes he missed his days in Persia where he played these little games. If it wasn't for the Shah and Khanum making his time miserable, he just might have enjoyed it immensely. Dipping his chin down, he lifted a hand to smooth along the side of his face, just beneath the edge of porcelain to sate an itch.

Christine was an apt pupil indeed, attentive and ever pertinacious in her lessons, be it acting or singing beneath his instruction. She allowed her mind to drift from her fantastical reverie, lids lifting slowly to expose the bright depths of chestnut orbs. The pallor of her lips brightened considerably, her cheeks retained their glow as she stood, a rustle of fabric embellished in lace and satin, as she brightened with his assurance, his obvious pride in her performance. She awaited his command, the servant and slave of his divine Music. Simple, foolish Christine – where once her demeanor was downtrodden and troubled, she approached her dresser, a spring in her step, and all but abolished the pain of the present state.

Lowering his hand, gloved fingers gave a slow stroke to shirt's sleeve, drawing along the elbow until he could loosely clasp his fingers to the hard edge. The itch sated, he lifted his head anew, catching sight of her as she rose with that ballerina's grace. Her steps might have faltered during her prior rehearsals, but now...now it seemed as if she floated upon air, or was gliding seamlessly through water. The contemplative lingering and longing of the past was no longer there, replaced by a lighter step, and he felt himself nearing a smile. He spoke before it completely appeared, though. "Shall we practice? You have a long day ahead of you. Or shall we rest and talk? Speak of whatever you wish. I am in your service."

_How ironic. _He sought to keep her to himself, away from those who would sway her from her path. That's all it was, the desire to ensure she would make it within the harsh world of the arts. He – who warped her senses through the almost hypnotic strains of his voice, seducing, enslaving – was very convincing.

As she approached the dresser, her fingers reached forth to dust the oak surface idly. She had half a mind to open the top drawer once more, to retrieve the letter and re-examine the simple contents of its message. However, she was stopped short by his words -- indeed his very _voice _– the proverbial shackles that bound her wrist and ankles, held her firmly over this foreign thing within her known as _will. _Her form pliant, she turned instantly towards his voice, which did her no good considering his rather ominous presence, and the way in which his words reverberated closer to her ear than any human form could.

Her fingers clasping their opposite partners, she on his proposal briefly before she spoke, her tone congenial and free of the former burden. "Will you sing with me, Erik? Any song you like, one that I might know?" She had heard him sing countless time, both in their clandestine encounters and within her dreams, and she of course was hardly a stranger to her own crystalline voice. Perhaps it was her amiable mood, her utter intoxication towards him that brought on the suggestion for such a blessing.

Surprisingly, the note had completely faded from his mind, and he hadn't even considered why she was lingering near the dresser. She was beneath his power, and he would ensure it would remain that way. If not for the conclusion of the evening, then for this moment. No more interruptions. No more answering the door. Gas lights flickered gently, as if touched by some unfelt breeze, casting dancing shadows along the wall, and its subtle glow upon pristine features. Features he allowed his gaze to skim over slowly.

"It would be a pleasure to sing with you, Christine. Beyond words. Tell me, child, what song would you choose? I know a great many, and there is a chance that the one I choose, you may not have knowledge of." Leather dusted over glass, touching lightly as he had done so many times before. If he could not feel the give of her skin beneath his fingers, he could always imagine. As finger's tip drew an aura's outline over her frame, he took to idly studying the way the flame's cast kissed over her.

"Something from the Opera, perhaps?" She suggested this softly, aware of the darkening atmosphere in her dressing room and even conforming to the blanket of impending darkness. She had grown strangely immune to the chill. Her body had become accustomed to the cold, what with all the nights she had stayed, exhausted, in her dressing room and fallen asleep, lulled by his voice.

Christine approached her chaise and sat, cushioning herself with the comfortable blanket and pillow, feather stuffed and embellished with the lace pillowcase Mama Valerius had sewn for her. She had brought it, as well as several other items, to her dressing room, if only to feel comfortable in the otherwise bleak cubicle. A bouquet of wild flowers sat wilting upon her dresser, serving as a mere place holder for the scores of roses she would surely receive upon her success. She knew many of the songs that the Opera House performed, she herself being involved in productions here and there, although only in the chorus, of course.

When she moved, his hand came to a stand still and he pressed his lips thinly, briefly. Streaking his fingers along the glass long enough to drop his hand down to his side, he curled his fingers against the side of expensive cloth, drawing it around and over his shoulder, and letting it fall in its shrouding hold yet again. "Shall we turn the aria into a duet, then?" The humor wasn't void from his voice, almost teasing in its quality as the low timbre reverberated gently through the dead still air.

The voice was hard to pin point. Just when senses could tell that the words were coming from one place, they'd be tricked into thinking they were coming from another direction. Maddening, it was no wonder that the former manager was always pasty when he received a note. He had heard the ghost's voice once, and that was all it took. Erik didn't want to cause the man a heart attack, after all.

Folding her hands carefully upon her lap, Christine sat straight and attentive for her unseen master. After a slight dip of her chin, she remembered herself and spoke to confirm her response. "If it would please you, dear Angel." Her smile was so bright, so genuine that the angels, nay even the demons, could not help but acknowledge its ever radiant quality. Precious, _innocent_, trusting maiden, she stood once more, bared toes furtively peeking from beneath the long hem of her robe.

The thin material gave way to hint at the material of her chemise beneath, low cut boned corset conforming to her shapely abdomen and ample breasts, exposing the rather austere slopes of flesh. The porcelain tone of her skin was awash in the glow of the fabric, freckled by shadows that splayed from the gas lanterns and various candles that burned low and shimmered in the breeze stirred by an unseen hand. The thick curls shivered with her movements, and her lips moistened as she took several deep breaths.

"It would please me, immensely," he spoke softly, as if he feared that another would hear his voice, and had she not been focusing upon it, she might have missed the gentle statement. On the move again, he turned his eyes from the flicker of lamp's flame to her, and there they lingered. So young, at times he didn't know how to regard her; as a child or a woman. There were even times when she seemed both. There was little doubt that, by outward appearances she was more one than the other.

Perhaps that's why he called her child now and again, to keep himself at a distance, retreating from the reality of what stood before him, tormenting him. The fates had ways of playing their little dirty tricks, and this was but one of many. She was to be held beyond arm's length, if not more, there was no doubt of it. Everything living that he touched became tarnished or no longer existed. Angel of Death, he had been dubbed before. The name was fitting. "Begin, and I shall follow."

And those eyes, those heavy eyes. Even now, with the very short distance that, unbeknown to her, separated them ... oh, how their expression, their piercing weight lay on her, set her skin afire and yet strangely chilled her. She trembled beneath their unseen penetration, beckoned within the depths of her nature for his furthered inspection of both her exterior and interior. She felt dissected beneath his instruction, truly, exposed in the dark, to what, she could not fathom. Had it been months, or years, that he had held her so captivated? It felt an eternity in this moment before she simply began to sing, as if she held no control over her body but knew only to perform as he willed.

The words to the aria she knew backwards and forward, recalled them as easily as she could the back of her hand. However, something deeper ... darker ... lingered behind her words; her voice was maturing. Long expired was her obvious trace of training lacked, and she sang now with the pure essence of neither woman nor child; ingenue nor succubus. She was almost tempting him forward to sing, a dance of words that was her own foolish way of testing the murky waters of her Erik.


	24. Chapter 24

_Closer,_ he willed silently, his hand settling on the glass. Unseen, he stepped closer himself, his feet but a few inches away from the surface, the rim of fedora threatening to touch the smooth plane. His eyes remained upon her eyes, slitting only slightly with a lowering of lids. _Come closer._ He had a quiet aura that resonated with power. Those in his presence – he had once been told – felt frightened and yet inspired, awed even, around him. It wasn't something he lingered upon, simply used as a weapon, just as deftly as the rope that often lay coiled at his side; menacingly, like a serpent prepared to strike. For now his hip was bare, the instrument of death deep down within his lair.

There was but a hint of a lift at the corners of his mouth. Catching up on her game? It was possible. The first few words were allowed to be sung alone, then projecting that radiance that lay like a shroud over him, he too began to sing. Lower in pitch, a different note, perfect harmony. Tainted words, drawn from the heights of heaven, or the depths of hell. There was no message there, no childhood friends, and no interferences. Only the two of them.

The call was undeniable. Really, how could she refuse? Vulnerable with each passing verse, the lure started at the physical tips of her fingers. Her arms lifted ever so slightly from her sides, and she drew forward ... _closer_ ... toward the far wall, partially concealed by the giant expanse of the reflective surface, her eyelids heavy as she moved, enthralled and overpowered, toward her own reflection. Possessed, she knew not her strengths as his voice joined her own in a lyrical dance; she sang without barriers, without fear of the outside world, a world that was but feet from her, beyond her locked, wardrobe door.

Christine lingered but inches from the mirror's surface, her breast heaving ardently as she took on each note with experienced ease, impassioned as inwardly that … that _force, _that restlessness she had lamented to him about only now clawed and struggled for release. His beautiful voice surrounded her, filled every inch of the tiny room and took in its figurative arms, her mending heart.

As she stepped to the mirror's surface, he slowly closed his eyes to half lid. So close yet so tauntingly far. The muted haze of molten gold was eventually shut off completely, but he didn't need to see…only feel. He passed fingertips over robed shoulder and before the front of her throat, pausing there, imagining the rhythmic beating of her heart. Christine shivered as if touched by those unseen caresses, every inch of her dancer's frame tense and aware of the slightest shift of air, the breeze a shuffle of breath at her neck. When her mind had been pulled to him deeply, he determined to drag her deeper still, doing with his voice what he could not physically.

Each word became like a caress, a pause with a brush of breath along wan skin, a slide of fingers through hair. He had to literally shake his head to distort the blasphemous images that flickered through his mind and he cracked his eyes open again, noticing that his hand had strayed, intimately so. He pulled it from the glass as if he had been burned by the harmless, cold surface.

How could he dare to even think, to consider, 'violating' her in such a manner? Auditory rape, as that annoying Daroga had called it, stripping the senses of all they knew, of all self preservation, urging the basest natures to the surface, unrepressed. While he had ceased that heavier weight, the lingering, enthralling threads remained, left to wind about her, her soul, possessively. Harmonizing with her even to the end.

How he allured her, exposed her, _haunted her. _And for all his relentless lessons, his never faltering pursuit of her success, she adored him, _needed_ him and his music. She too closed her eyes, and dared not to touch the glossy surface but held her palm but inches from the surface. She lingered tentatively before the mirror, its surface an almost sacred portal to be held in reverence.

Why was she so drawn to her own reflection, so suddenly aware of his presence, closer than ever before as she stood singing to what she thought to be only herself in the mirror? Her neck craned slightly to the side, her splay of russet curls falling from her shoulder and exposing in shadow the smooth crook of her neck. Song's end drew the first shade of a smile from her otherwise entranced expression.

He loosened the clinging grasp he had upon the edges of his cloak and exhaled slowly. What was he doing to this poor girl? To _himself_? More than once he had thought to never show up again, never be heard from again. Pathetic that he knew he'd yearn for the conversations, the mere sight of the young woman.

Absently moistening his lips he folded his arms across his stomach with a precarious hold of palms along his elbows. The silence didn't remain for long, his soft word broke it: "Another?" _Fool. You know you would be tempted to further the hold upon her. _It was amusing, the switches that his conscience had. Make her his, ensure no others interfered with her training, yet at the same time…leave the poor darling alone.

It took the her a moment to regain her control. Wary glances were sent about slowly to reaffirm just where she was, what had happened, for she trembled so. Her hands lifted to encircle her waist, her legs uneasy as she unknowingly stretched the bond between them. To the chaise she shifted, lowering herself; exhausted. She remained near the end closest to the mirror, her arm resting upon the curved frame of the lounge as she sat quietly for a brief moment.

Nodding in partial exhaustion, it was only his voice and the intensified connection from before – something most certainly new – that she desired as sleep overtook her, dreams lingering just behind his lulling words. Her voice was soft, so soft it was barely a whisper. "Please?" A puppet on his string, her palm lifted to smooth over her warm cheek and the tender slope of her jaw.

It didn't take someone keen of eye to notice the tiredness lurking within every movement she made, the slacking of muscle and the fight to keep her eyes focused. Though she couldn't see it, he gave a slow lowering of his chin, complying with her wish. "Rest now, child, and I will sing you into the mists of Morpheus." He had no doubts that she knew all the parts she had to learn, and at this time her well being was more important. He couldn't have her upon the stage, nearly falling asleep and forgetting her lines. She needed a nap, at least, for he knew Meg would be returning to drag her along for a full cast rehearsal.

He made a last ditch effort, tried to sway himself away from the urge to sing to her by settling thoughts on her childish demeanor and not her womanly appearance. The effort was more or less abandoned. Wordless was the song that began flooding through the small expanse of the dressing room, a lure toward slumber where, within, he'd let the true power begin. Her dreams held things she wished to keep from him, soul's passions and truths, unknown desires, dreams that he knew, in his better judgment, he should leave well alone.

She was urged by his remark into sleep, her weary frame drawing her limbs onto the cushioned chaise. With her free arm, she pulled the heavy blanket over her reclining form, sliding to lie on her back as the first uncompromisingly beautiful notes of his song began. As darkness inevitably fell over her, luring and attracting her into dreams, her soul took her where she longed to be.

Could a lullaby be seductive? Somehow, someway, he managed to make it so, sinking his claws in deeper than he had before. Her curls splayed upon her shoulders and neck, a magnificent curtain to frame her heavenly visage as she sank instantly into slumber. Christine was a virtuous girl, though she was oft troubled of late by her dreams, unspeakable fantasies she dared not reveal. She only recalled that the object of her strange obsession was derived from the Voice itself, Erik. His voice was akin to a touch, calling her by name and speaking not of lessons and fame, but of love and desire ... the richest of earth's treasures.

In sleep, indeed even in her waking hours, she found herself being possessed, daily, by this strange 'Opera Ghost'. She found herself protective of him and their time, adored him, and aspired, even, to attempt to attract him. The slow rise and fall of her chest served to prove the depth of her slumber at last, and he, with a muted song still in his throat, sank back into the darkness from whence he came.


	25. Chapter 25

_Another little break to, again, thank my readers/reviewers. Thanks you kindly, everyone!_

* * *

The Palais Garnier was fluttering with excitement. From the edging of the great shining globe upwards into the sky, to the moment it set behind Apollo's golden lyre, the day had been an endless tizzy of fitting gowns for Christine, as well as endless vocal exercises opposite her 'love interest', Ubaldo Piangi. It seemed the overweight tenor knew not how to handle himself in the presence of such a kind spirit, one so drastically opposite of La Carlotta. 

And who could forget the former Prima Donna, her pouting lips and peacock like arrogance absent now from the wings after the young soprano's immediate success in the first and second acts of the Opera's opening performance of _Hannibal_?The evening had certainly been a blur, from the moment the curtain rose to expose little Daae's costumed form, trembling under the weight of so many eyes, to now as she awaited her entrance in the wings.

Despite her skittish performance, her voice had certainly exceeded the expectations of Carlotta's elite coterie, indeed, exceeded even the manager's expectations who had first heard her crystalline voice only the night before. There lay in the bright-eyed ingenue a significant amount of faith – if only for the profits such a crowd could bring the upper echelon being out in full evening garb – and certainly there was pressure upon the woman-child. There was more so a secret dedication to her beautiful and mysterious Angel of Music, her tutor and confidante, that gave her wings to soar over every note, over every passionate word that escaped her lips.

The orchestra thundered out her cue from the pit, and slowly she eased, as if on a cloud caught by the whim of a breeze, onto the stage. The grandeur of her multi-colored, golden gown gave her the appearance of a celestial being, her thicket of curls entwined with ribbons and tiny jewels of star shaped combs was a halo around her cheeks and shoulders. She began the aria she had so familiarized herself with, her tone rich and filled with the impassioned depths of her very spirit.

It shouldn't have surprised the Vicomte that there was a full house; it wasn't because of the opera itself, but due to the appearance of the newest diva. There were inward wagers amongst many on whether she would be as good, or better, than La Carlotta. Thus far, she had proven good enough to keep people within their seats and the applause going.

Having had the pleasure of being introduced to many of the cast hours prior, he also was allowed into the manager's box, with mild protest from him. He knew well he could have paid for his own box, though didn't want to be rude and deny the offer. Andre, Phillipe, Firmin and his wife occupied the box as well, and still there was plenty of elbow room, one of which was being nudged into his side from his older brother. "Enjoying yourself so far? You seem a bit bored."

Half distractedly he brushed off the elbow and set the opera glasses aside. "Just something seems awfully familiar about the one who portrays Elissa. Could just be my imagi-" The rest of the word never got out as a sharp 'shh!' came from nearby with the beginning of the music. Frowning deeply, he lifted the glasses again to look through and down to the stage. Intently he studied the woman, his brow creasing ever further, but when her lone voice echoed through the crowd, a brow hitched high. _Something definitely familiar..._

So many years ago; images flickered through his mind, and his thoughts echoed what they had then, even if he was but a boy. _Breathtaking. Absolutely breathtaking._ He felt both his throat and chest constrict with the knowledge that itched at the back of his mind, and he leaned forward as if it would allow him a much closer view of this heavenly being incarnate. "Careful there, brother," the mustached Phillipe mentioned with a chuckle. "Lean any further and you'll fall right over the balcony." He settled back again, unceremoniously thumping to his chair as he lowered the glasses. _Impossible_. After all these years ... this was the very same Christine that he knew from so long ago? What were the chances?

There were rare times when Erik braved the outside world, earlier had been one of those times when he sought out one of his...companions to check on his garb. He spared no expense in his clothing, even if no one but himself and the blue-eyed fur-ball saw them. The Madame had been spoken to earlier, to ensure that his box had been saved for the opera, and he was beyond pleased when she confirmed it to be true. Her payment given, and a program collected – even if he didn't actually need it – he took his place as that ghostly host of the infamous Box Five.

Hollowed out pillar escalated and door locked shut, he took his place near the corner of the booth, resting back among the soft cushions that had been taken care of prior to this engagement. Madame Giry did well to tend to his comforts, and he never believed there was anything he could do to repay her. In a way ... he owed her his life.

It was around mid first Act when he had arrived, as usual, and since then his attention had yet to tear away from the stage. From Christine. There was one particular portion he was looking forward to, when she would either fly or fall before the eyes of the public. Led out upon the stage by the first strains of music, spiritual, gilded wings took to air upon those unfeeling planks of wood. There was no denying the smile that wanted to creep across his lips, and closing his eyes, he listened quietly to the sound of her beautiful voice.

He was tempted to speak to her, to let her know that he was, indeed, there. But he didn't want to distract her from her song, from this heightened feeling of having the world's eyes upon her. Taking care to remain out of sight, he shifted a bit closer to the banister, his form hidden by the curving drape of scarlet curtain. His gaze fell upon her again, pride-filled, and there it stayed. Unlike others, he wouldn't remain for the whole of the production, but seek to return to her mirror where he would wait with bated breath.

_Speak again, bright angel, _as Shakespeare had once scripted. It seemed that the Heavens sighed those very words as she paused in her verses, singing again with experience and pride. It was undeniable the astonishing talent in her portrayal of Elissa, Queen of Carthage, that so many had expected Carlotta to perform. Indeed, she pulled it off quite nicely.

In the stalls, men admired and sent forth for roses to be delivered to the starlet's new dressing room. Women applauded her convincing affection toward the sweating and swarthy Piangi, and yet from the shadows, as one little Meg Giry observed silently, the beauty was far from the applause. She appeared ethereal, otherworldly, behind the glow of the dimmed footlights, her full skirt of golden white and tightly fitted bodice casting an aura around her slim figure.

The depths of her eyes were distant, lifted into the infinite space that surrounded her; she was singing for _him, _for Erik, ever elusive and still strangely present, the instructor of her once unshaped song. She was Eurydice led from the depths of darkest grief by her unseen Orpheus to be transformed now, as all Paris could clearly see, into the splendid shape of an earthly angel.

"Do you believe in fate, Phillipe?" This brought a curious glance to the young Vicomte, then glancing out to the stage the Comte chuckled deeply. "Love at first sight, is it?" Raoul grinned toward his brother at that question. "More like second," he responded with a smile. She had changed so much, no longer the little girl that could hardly carry a tune, but as enamored as he was then, he still enjoyed hearing her untrained voice. Now it was _amazing_. "I will remain here after the opera, Phillipe. I must know if my eyes are deceiving me or not." With a shrug the Comte nodded, then silence fell again between them.

Both Firmin and Andre casually eavesdropped upon the conversation between their patron and his kin, then leaning close to each other they spoke quietly so neither brother could hear. "Thinking what I'm thinking?" Firmin asked Andre, who was grinning with a nod. "The boy has stars in his eyes for her, we'll give them a meeting. Ah, love."

Firmin lifted a brow slowly, then snorted before lowering his voice more. "Money, more like it. If he truly finds interest in this Daae, he stays, continues to be our patron and–…what?" Blinking slowly at his partner's scowl he gave a roll of his shoulders in a shrug and rested back in his seat, only smiling at the curious glance his wife had given him. Patting her hand gently he returned to listening to their Prima Donna sing.

Though Erik had not spoken to her during the entire performance, Christine was assured by that familiar pressure of heated weight upon her that he was somewhere, perhaps in Heaven with the angels as he had said, watching her. Or it was but the gaze of the audience she had mistaken for that strange feeling, though too enraptured in her song was she to really ponder upon it.

She inched center stage, vaguely aware of the applause as again she picked up her song from behind the melodic trail of the orchestra's interlude. Even Monsieur Reyer was beaming from his platform toward the young woman, a mere chorus girl picked in an instant, from the line to perform as Prima Donna for all of Paris.

Where ever her Angel was, be it Heaven or even upon this terrestrial ball, or within the walls of the Opera itself, her voice would surely reach him. As she neared the climax of the song, she took in mind his instruction for one brief moment – shoulders drew back, chin lifted high as if to face down the audience, the _world, _with her emotional vocal testimony.

Deeper, _closer_ to the point of the aria's ending crescendo, Christine took in a breath and shattered the air around her in enraptured glory. A triumph! The front section of the audience was on its feet in an instant before the music had even reached its final notes, their thunderous cries of adoring Bravo! climbing over their applause. Just as she had imagined, just as her Angel had promised.

Even the shadowed occupants in the wings clapped for little Christine Daae, Meg's smile standing out from the crowd as the proudest of their party. Christine even caught a glimpse of Giry's own pleased expression, rare and as strangely beautiful as a double rainbow.

The swiftness in which Raoul stood to applaud took the other four occupants of the box completely off guard, and belatedly they rose as well, applauding along side of the excited Vicomte. Phillipe was laughing wholeheartedly, having not seen his brother so ecstatic since he joined the navy. Casting an almost apologetic glance to the managers, Phillipe was the first to return to his seat to prepare to watch the rest of the performance.

After the audience began calming, Raoul lowered as well, sitting comfortably, half turned to the two. "I must meet her. Is that possible?" He barely even waited for a response before he turned around with a lift of the glasses to watch the glowing woman. That was her, had to be. He silently prayed that it was whom he believed it to be.

"But of course, Vicomte." Firmin nudged Andre repeatedly in the ribs then grinned broadly, practically having dollar signs flash in his eyes. His partner only shook his head, chuckling softly at the exuberance of the other. Sometimes he had to wonder what the man loved more, money or his wife. "So far so good," Firmin gave a hushed whisper, to which he gained a soft 'ssh'. The production was hardly over, there were still many scenes to go before Frimin's 'money maker scheme' would be secure.

She had done excellently. There were no words as to how Erik could describe it. He, who was constantly articulate, was made speechless. His tutoring had taken well, extremely well. He cared not for the money that the managers were going to gain with their new diva – even if it did mean he'd probably be able to demand more each month. He cared not for the audience's approval – even if he did tell her that she would make them hers. What he did care for, was that she was baring her spirit, and not simply singing mechanically like La Carlotta would have done – and she was doing it for him.

The poor child had winded herself with the vigor of her performance, and her staged exit was a hasty one. She was growing faint, quite suddenly, her trembling hand lifted to dust gently upon her powdered bosom. Meg was at her side instantly once the starlet was away from the audience's view – but hardly from their minds – secure in the shadows of the flies.

The blonde took hold of her friend's arm, guiding her toward the shade where she would change into the costume assigned for the upcoming scene. Meg whispered soft assurance into her ear: "Carlotta has never received such praise, Christine! They are in your palm!" The bustling chorus girl was all smiles as she assisted the dressers in unfastening the complicated clasp of the gown. Free of its weight, Christine took the brief moment backstage to catch her breath, to try and calm her beating heart as it threatened to all but jump forth from her breast.

Into her regal raiment she was assisted, and as she entered again behind the softened glare of the footlights, an audible whisper went up from the audience. Remarks were made of her undeniable charm, nay even her beauty, as compared to the over zealous and oft gaudy Carlotta, the woman that served as a distant memory for what was certainly Christine Daae's mighty triumph over the Opera House.

Undoubtedly, the over-zealous woman herself had stormed from the wings and out toward the back exits until she could no longer keep a rein on her temper and left the opera house completely, with hissed vows that this little toad of an upstart would never again take one of her roles. Typical Carlotta temper tantrum, she conveniently forgot that it was because of one that she didn't retain the role of Elissa; herself.

"Raoul, where on Earth are you going?" Phillipe looked up at his brother who had begun to collect his things, looking as if he was about to depart. Curling his scarf around his neck to protect him from the coming cold, he grinned at his older brother. "Worry not, I will return before it's over. Promise." Placing his top hat on he departed from the box before his kin could give argument and started down the stairs that would lead him through the corridors. The nearby flower vendor would find their store nearly empty by time he finished purchasing, and on his way back a message would be given that the numerous bouquets were to be led through the back and into Christine's dressing room. Hopefully it wasn't one of the real tiny ones.

Just as he promised his brother, Raoul had returned before the opera was over, long before. Nearing the end, the carriage with the flowers was brought back to the stables, and a lad was informed that the bouquets were to be delivered from the Vicomte, directions were gained to the lady's room. Upon opening the door, the mounds and mounds of flowers were placed upon almost every available surface. No note was left behind as to who sent them. Among the pink carnations and roses, a single blood red rose stood out, but it wasn't with the Vicomte's order. This one lay on her vanity, held snugly by a black ribbon.

"I have not missed much, have I?" He whispered to Phillipe when he returned and took up the glasses again. "Only a few moments. Where were you?" He knew by the grin that Raoul wasn't going to be giving up his secrets soon.

If one would have presumed that perhaps her brilliant aria had been the last of her strength to perform, mark them corrected. Her voice was just as glorious and overpowering as ever before, intoxicating to hear. Her appearance, the very vision of magnificence. If anything, her skilled performance complemented Piangi, who – weight permeating – bounded and ceremoniously greeted his enchanting mistress as she entered from stage left, followed by her servants.

The acting director had done well with her. Even if Piangi was doing terribly as her opposite, she fit into the part as snug as a glove. If they were upon the streets, passers-by would have believed them to be long time lovers. At one point Erik recalled he had to pay attention to the rest of the opera, the music and the dancing, which was just...terrible. The Madame would be gaining a letter ... then again, she would know of his displeasure already, undoubtedly. He could almost see her shaking her head. It would be the managers that would receive his opinions, as well as reminding them that he hadn't gained his salary for the month. They might have come later in the month, but that was no excuse. They were warned, and should keep the same timing as the prior manager.

Before the final scene ended, he took his leave, escaping down the length of the pillar and into the hidden corridors. When he had reached her room he was unpleasantly surprised by the amount of flowers that already littered the area. Grunting low beneath his breath he slipped his time piece from his watch and checked the hour. Soon she would be returning to him, and it would be then that he would express his pride in how well she had done. The curtain closing didn't last very long. It would open again soon, allowing the cast to give their final bows.

In the final scene of the opera, the stage filled with each member of the cast, the orchestra and each combined voice lifting in the notes reminiscent of the opening chorus. Christine took center stage, singing her affectionate ode to her Elissa's precious Hannibal, her arms outstretched dramatically, and still quite convincingly, toward her cast mate. Piangi responded with his own verse, and at last the entire company sounded out the finale of the opera:_"Hear the drums! Hannibal comes!" _As the mighty trumpet and timpani soared beneath the collaboration of each note, the thick curtain fell in a slow close over the brightly lit stage.

"Stand by for curtain call!" The managers that acted as rather strict overseers of each wing barked out the command over the bustle of fabric and excited chattering, the chorus girls hardly able to contain their excitement over the obvious success of the performance. And also of Christine's glorious debut.

At the loud warning, she immediately rushed off stage behind the security of the closer curtain, the orchestra winding into the music that would accompany the curtain call. Dressers assisted in again changing the bright new star behind her curtain, her garments exchanged once more for the heavy gauze and taffeta fabric of her flowing gown. Little Giry stood nearby, ready to fasten the delicate, bejeweled combs and ribbons into her thicket of curls. Christine tugged excitedly at her companion's arm, speaking hurriedly into her ear as they moved for places.

"I can scarcely breathe, Meg! They're shouting _my_ name!" The pair shared both joyous and shaken laughter, the blonde fleeing to join the ranks of the chorus as they pranced swiftly onto the stage, awaiting the curtain to open. As the thick velvet pulled back and heavenwards, the first movements were the sprightly little ballet rats, moving in unison as they politely curtsied. They moved back, allowing the minor characters to enter and bow. They too faded into the background, drowned out by the entrance of sweet Elissa herself, a supporting cast member but clearly the star of this show.

She curtsied low, her head dipping humbly before she rose, a smile stretching upon her lips as she gracefully extended her arm towards Piangi as he entered. Even the little round specimen of a man was smiling, chuckling as he stepped center stage and bowed, signaling then for the company bow. Christine took his sweating hand, offering him a fragile smile as long stemmed roses fell at their feet, _her _feet, and the thunderous applause showed little sign of ceasing. The curtain closed on this happy triumph, the delicate ingenue led offstage by her friend and the Dance Mistress herself who, having noticed her pallor, moved on stage amidst the madness to assist her.


	26. Chapter 26

"There is to be a gathering later this evening, I was told." Phillipe had to call over the applause some, so his brother would be able to hear him. Glancing back to the managers he then returned his eyes to the cheering Raoul, who didn't seem as if he'd be silent any time soon. Laughing and giving a shake of his head, he clasped his bother's shoulder. "You're going to go hoarse if you keep that up, then how will you speak to your lady?"

Clapping until his hands stung, Raoul finally turned to his brother, that boyish grin back upon his lips. "Yes, yes. I heard you. Will you be joining the rest of us?" To which Phillipe shook his head. "I've a many number of things to tend to. In fact, I should be leaving now. I'll leave Claude with you, so you can have a ride home." Donning his hat he gave a polite bow to the managers then made his way from the box.

"Before the gathering, I would like to meet her." Turning to the managers as they collected their things, Raoul started out of the box with them, a bit of a bounce in his step. "Yes, yes, of course. The party will not start for another hour or so, giving the cast time to wind down and change from their costumes." Setting the opera glasses aside for them to be collected later by the box attendants, Andre lifted from his seat and gathered his hat and cane. Doing the same, his partner was beaming once more. "Perhaps if we can get through the masses we can have you waiting at her door."

Holding his elbow out for his wife, she settled her hand along the inner elbow and walked with him to and down the stairs. "I cannot believe how successful that was. I can honestly say that it was one of the most promising things I have seen in a while. We made quite a choice, Andre." Glad that their box had a sure shot to a semi-clear path, they both glanced back to ensure that Raoul was still behind them.

"Successful? It was a _tour de force_! I believe Miss Daae will prove to be a wonderful discovery. Dropped into our laps, rather." A little joke between them concerning the backdrop that had fallen upon 'poor Carlotta.' The two of them laughed on their way toward the dressing rooms.

The trio inched through the crowded wings: the excited and rambunctious ballerina, her stern and secretive mother, and the flabbergasted and star struck Prima Donna all pushing through the masses towards the equally congested corridor. Young patrons already filled the halls, awaiting the chance to strike up a friendly conversation with a member of the _corps de ballet_, beautiful girls, but most were daft and dull witted.

It was easy enough to slip past their barricade, Giry's icy stern glares repelling their heated hearts. However, the page boys could not be steered from their path as they approached Christine swiftly, two boys hardly a day over thirteen holding carefully in their arms, as predicted, the scores of roses they'd collected from the stage surface.

Of course, Christine was much too faint by the events of the night, so Giry and her daughter took them up instead, leading the young woman into her dressing room, only to find _more _tokens of adoration. Wall to papered wall was pink, intermingled with a bundle of white here and there to signify the other would-be suitors. She had yet to take note to the single red one upon her dresser, tied up with black satin and standing forth from the scene as a rather foreshadowing reminder of her Angel of Music.

Hearing Meg before he actually saw the woman, Erik turned his gaze to the door as the women filed in, and he scowled faintly. From the look of the young diva she was going to need rest, and he wagered a guess that her company would not be remaining for too long. For the time being he remained the silent observer.

Meg closed the door behind them swiftly, moving to guide Christine's weary trek to her chaise. Her eyes were wide, her manner bubbly as she fretted over her friend. "Look at all these roses! Oh, what a success you were! Where in this _world _have you been hiding, Christine? Really, you were perfect!" She laughed, clapping her hands as fitfully as a child, hardly acknowledging her mother's presence. That is, until the cold resonance of her voice lifted. "Really, Meg. Let the child alone for a moment." She took her child by her arm gently, tugging her away as Christine herself laughed softly and shook her head. "Oh no, I'm alright."

Meg, stung by her mum's stern reprimand, sulked away to idly observe and paw gently at the roses. The flowers seemed never ending, their hues rich against the thick carpet and golden fixtures of Christine's new dressing room. How quickly things could change over night in the Opera House. The chattering that filtered in from the corridor signaled the Dance Mistress to take her temporary leave, before she would once again return to assist the managers before the gathering.

She turned to face her child, clapping quickly as she moved for the door. "Meg Giry, are you a dancer?" The blonde turned quickly, nodding in vague confusion toward the question, folding her arms behind her back, in a half attempt to shield that costumed backside from the ever so painful blow of her mother's cane. "Then get to your dressing room, and don't forget to return your costume to wardrobe!" Without further hesitation the pair moved for the exit.

Christine would have watched the two leave, offered some sort of gratitude for their kind assistance, only ... something had caught her eye. That rose there upon her dresser seemed quite strange in a room of pink and white heavenly hues. It was the deepest of red – the bow, the blackest of ebony. She stood from her chaise, a rustle of fabric her accompaniment as she inched toward the dresser surface slowly, picking the thorny rose carefully up into her grasp.

She held it extended before her, studying its strange presence. As Madame Giry turned to close the door behind her, her gaze shot immediately to the object in Christine's hand. She said nothing but turned on her heels and closed the door behind her, urging her child through the stuffed corridor hurriedly – as if that room itself proved a dangerous portal to some unseen Hell.

* * *

While the managers spoke Raoul thought over what he would say to her. Would she even remember him? He remembered her, remembered all he needed to spark memories within her. But what if it wasn't who he thought it had been? It couldn't be any other woman, how many Daaes were out there? Or Christines in Paris for that matter? It wasn't a common name this day and age. 

In a way he felt so foolish, just like he had when he thoughtlessly jumped into that freezing water to fetch the young girl's scarf, then asked for a kiss on the cheek as a reward. He had been so awkward then, and now he had the sense of familiarity with that feeling. He was again jumping into water, taking a chance of disappointment if it wasn't his dear Christine.

If the two glanced back to him more than once, he hadn't noticed. His mind was in the past, and he swore he could hear the distant lilting of a violin. It brought a smile to his lips.

"I think we've lost him," one whispered to the other, then began laughing. Firmin wasn't paying attention; he kept going on about the success, and, of course, the money. "Not one single refund from hearing about the change of cast. And not a seat empty either!" Andre just shook his head, but the other man's wife said it all with her soft murmur: "You are so greedy."

"Oh no, gentlemen, I'm still quite here." Chuckling deeply, Raoul shook his head gently and finally focused on just where he was going. If he had to head back to his carriage, he'd need to know how to get through this maze of hallways and stairs. Having to pause a moment as they were suddenly swarmed with people, the two gave their thanks and collected the gifts offered; a bouquet for the lady, and for the managers bottled of champagne and wine. Raoul hadn't been with them before, and upon seeing the man there were a few whispers between people.

The rumor mill began to warm up.

Finally making their way to the back wings, the stairs that led to the dressing rooms were taken. Because of her new status, as of the night prior, Christine no longer remained within that tiny room, but the one that had been once used by Carlotta's understudy, who was still quite ill. Even with its elevated size, the amount of flowers made it seem smaller. At least she could walk through without brushing into a bloom or two.

Lifting a hand he passed his fingers through the long strands, easing them back neatly, and adjusting his coat he brushed off a portion of unseen dust at the sleeve, making himself look presentable, even if he was whispered to be the epitome of perfection by ballet girls he passed. He didn't seem to hear the comments, his mind set on one thing and one thing only; meeting Christine again. This was revealed in a bit of impatience.

Turning he glanced to the managers and gestured to the hallway they were roaming down. "This is the final leg, Messieurs?" Restless, he gave another slight shift to his jacket and faced forward again with a growing smile.

"Yes, we are almost there. Right down the hallway from La Carlotta's room," Andre mentioned, motioning to the large doubled doors that were at the top of the stairs they were drawing close to. When they came to a closer set of doors with ivory handles surrounded by brass, Andre motioned to them with a grin. "Here we are, Monsieur le Vicomte. Would you like for us to announce you, or perhaps present her to you?"

As embarrassing as it was, he had to give a slight lean against the portion of wall beside him, his hand settled against the arrow that pointed toward Piagni's room. Drawing in a slow breath and gathering his composure, he nodded then stepped forward to the door, though he paused at the manager's words. "Ah, no thank you. If you don't mind, this is one visit I'd enjoy unaccompanied. Though..." He leaned over and snagged the bottle from Firmin's hands and grinned to him. "..I will take this. Thank you, messieurs." Again turning to the door he placed his hand upon the ivory and drew in a slow breath.

_Time to jump into the freezing sea._

* * *

Grateful that the Madame warded Meg out of the room before she drove poor Christine mad with her bubbly nature, Erik turned his attention from the door and to her as she lifted the rose. Out of all the flowers that were within her room, it was that one that she picked up first. It was no surprise to him, considering it stood out vividly. A soft dampening of his lower lip, and he let his voice reach her, echoing ever so gently within the expanse of the room, and coming from the crimson bloom itself. "You were beyond perfect, my dear. How does it feel to have the world in your hands? At your feet?" He smiled gently, the gesture heard within his words. The word 'proud' wasn't enough to describe what he felt. 

Such a strange fascination Christine had with such a flower, her gaze never leaving its tight petals as she shifted and moved to sit atop her upholstered stool. Her gown rustled loudly with the movement, fanning around her as she leaned her elbows idly upon the oak surface. Daintily, she touched the tip of each finger to the thorns, reflecting distantly upon her performance and sighing quite heavily with the poor favor she had fallen in with herself, that radiant creature with the face of a Botticelli angel, so distant from her success.

Distant until that voice pierced the air softly, traveling directly into her heart as a smile immediately crawled to her lips. He _had _seen her perform! She sat poised then, placing the rose gently onto the dresser as she lifted her otherwise downtrodden chin, the movement stirring her tumbling nest of curls. She still wore the dazzling halo of sorts, and if not for the crystal sewn fabric, the aforementioned wreath of stars, and the tint of her heavy stage makeup – her joy alone would have filled the room with brightened light.

It warmed him to see her joy, the brightness in her eyes and the scarlet upon her cheeks – that wasn't from the thickness of the makeup. She thoroughly deserved the praise, and he enjoyed giving it to her. Lips parted to continue, but then his voice became trapped as he stopped it abruptly. Though she might not have noticed the shifting of the handle, he did. He had to pay attention to such things, especially since he spoke to her.

He wanted no others to hear his voice as they walked in, not unless he wanted them to hear. Then _he_ stepped in, the one he knew to be the patron of the Opera House. The Vicomte de Chagny. What was he doing here? And entering a woman's dressing room without warning or even permission? He felt his jaw set firmly as well as fingers curl deeply enough that beneath the gloves of leather, his knuckles were stark white. If looks could kill, the _fop _would be burned to cinders by now.

A _thousand_ times over.

* * *

_For those that know me.. you knew I had to use the word 'fop' at least once, heh._


	27. Chapter 27

"Little Lotte thought of everything and nothing..."

She anticipated Erik's next words, only to find that they never came. Instead, the sudden opening of the door filled the air, startling her as she quickly stood -- almost as if shot, or slapped – turning towards the interloper who so ungraciously entered without warning. It was a man …a handsome man at that, who possessed in his friendly eyes and smile a sort of familiarity. She proved not easily swayed by the past and its often enjoyable memories, instead opting to question his brazen entrance. "Monsieur?– "

She hardly had time to speak further when words of startling nostalgia struck her from his remarks. _Little Lotte._ A pet name her father had given her. The title of a story of a girl by that name, a spirited little thing that was affectionate to her mother and faithful to her doll and took good care of her dress, and her red shoes, and her violin. A smile broke over Christine's face, her form instantly relaxing as her eyes lit up, a not so distant image of herself as a child, the same Little Lotte.

She continued where he had left off, "...She floated in the golden sunlight like a summer bird, wearing a crown of flowers on her blond curls." There was no question of the author of the letter she had received the night before, reminiscent of her red scarf and the impetuous boy who had claimed it from the sea for her. Yet, was her mind deceiving her? Did her very own Raoul stand before her now, a grown man and a Viscount no less?

_She remembers!_ His grin couldn't get any wider and he approached her, continuing. "Her soul was as clear and blue as her eyes." Now that he could see her up close, he noticed just how much she had grown. No more was she that thin wisp of a girl who was gawkish and unremarkable.

Placing the bottle of champagne upon the vanity's surface, he tucked his hands behind him and rocked from toe to heel once, then again before squinting at her. "Don't tell me you lost it, the scarf. Not after all of that trouble it took me to get it. I almost met my death in those cold waters." He sighed, deeply, his head shaking, but still he grinned. "I had to take caster oil for a week. " Glancing briefly away from her he took in the sight of all the flowers, some of which he hadn't gotten her, but that didn't matter. His took up the majority of the room. "I miss those times we had, Christine."

Was this the one? The 'friend' she had spoken of last evening? The patron was her childhood friend? The vicious irony. Erik's eyes lifted toward the heavens, and a silent curse was given to the gods, the angels, every single heavenly being that resided behind those 'golden gates.' Taking in a slow breath, he tried to calm, tried but wasn't succeeding in the least. Tearing his eyes from the stone ceiling, he drew closer to the mirror, and settled a hand against the wall just above the cut out of stone where an old lantern lay, fingers still curled tightly.

_She wouldn't let this boy distract her_, he tried to tell himself. She promised him. It was a promise that he expected her to keep. They weren't things that were given out lightly, promises. Only briefly did he settle his gaze upon her before his eyes flicked back toward Raoul, taking in his perfect face, perfect eyes. That's what he was. _Annoyingly_ perfect.

She was in awe at how he'd grown so, his stature much taller – as expected, he but fourteen when first they had met -- his jaw strong, his manner of dress elegant and refined. A _Viscount!_ She had known him simply as Raoul, the little boy who had shared the stories with "Of the picnics in the attic, and father playing the violin..." Oh, if her poor father could see him now! He would've surely been proud to see how far the young man had come.

At his slow approach, Christine too could not help but step forward, and at last with his confirmation at mention of the infamous red scarf, whole hearted laughter bubbled forth from her lips. "Raoul! So, _it is_ you?" Such informal and brazen conduct she cared not to acknowledge as her arms lifted, outstretched to him for a long and much over-do embrace.

Her mind was free, in the moment at least, from thoughts of the stranger that still surely accompanied them, secret and silent. She pressed to her childhood friend tightly, her arms winding around his broad shoulders as she laughed, fancying herself little Lotte again, standing by the sea shore as she pressed a kiss to his cheek in reward for his valor.

"In the flesh." Winding his arms around her waist he squeezed her gently, leaning down enough to hug her closely to him, laughing gently all the while. Reluctantly parting, he stepped back, but didn't move his hands from her waist. "Amazing. Gangly you might have been, but no longer. It was your smile I remembered, brighter than the sun and more beautiful than all of these roses combined. That is a smile I have dreamt of seeing for what seems like a lifetime." The parting didn't last for too long, he stepped in again for a loose embrace this time. "You would not believe how much I have missed you, Christine. So much. I near died in shock seeing you. You sang like an angel tonight."

The furious rush of heat didn't take him by surprise, Erik was fully expecting it, and it took all of his willpower to keep from going through the mirror and strangling the boy with his bare hands. Switching his breathing from his nose to his mouth so he'd be able to allow easier passage, he brought his hand to his chest, against his rapidly beating heart. _Calm down, calm. _

He wasn't as young as he used to be, but it was more his past habits of trying to get away that made him not as strong as he used to be. He continued to stare for a time as they held each other, the boy gaining a closeness that he would never be able to receive. He wanted to go, return to his lair, but he was rooted in place, unable to look away from the duo.

Such happiness she had not felt in what seemed like, as he had said, a lifetime. Oh, and his embrace! The warmth of a human touch, one she felt so safe within. The past months had proved fruitless in this area, her Erik's voice the only manner of affection she could recall. The power of his words alone was the embrace, the gentle caress. Her dreams were filled with the need of those simple necessities, and Raoul withheld nothing in his kindness and affection.

She beamed up at him, her palms resting on his arms as he remarked on her noticeable growth before she again found herself in his embrace. _Sang like an angel. Angel. _It was with that word that she was suddenly aware of their silent observer, the heat of his eyes suddenly dawning on her as she slipped from Raoul's embrace all together, moving to her dresser and sitting before it again, facing him as she recovered from the initial veracity of that presence.

She donned a simple and sweet smile, her gaze cast upon him as she dodged his compliment entirely and continued a portion of the little poem softly, fondly. "But more than anything else, she loved to hear the Angel of Music as she was falling asleep..." _The Angel of Music sang songs in her head. _Could her Raoul understand now that she had been visited by the Angel? Was he still the same foolish and superstitious boy he once was? Though Christine doubted it, she stood again and moved towards him, taking his hands in her own as she spoke softly, her eyes wild and dreamy.

"Father said he would send the Angel of Music to me when he reached heaven. Oh, but father is dead now, Raoul. And I _have_ been visited by the Angel." Her voice was low, barely above a whisper as if she feared her Erik hearing how she so excitedly gave her secret to another. But this was Raoul! Raoul, who too had heard of the celestial creature who was told to visit all musicians before their great moments of artistic genius. When she began speaking of the Angel of Music, of _him_, an almost smug smile crossed over Erik lips. Even with this little reunion, she remembered him. He was always there lurking in some part of her mind, whether consciencely, or not.

"Oh, I have no doubt about it," he stated a bit gravely. Surely she didn't connect her father's tales to her sudden success, did she? "I'm sorry, Christine. Your father was a good man. I still remember him playing the violin for us as we read to each other dark stories of the North." Sighing gently, he curled his fingers around her own, easing her closer in a near-embrace as she dropped her voice to a whisper.

He didn't want her to be overwhelmed with sadness from her father's death. It was her victory in the opera that she should be celebrating. "Come. Let me treat you to supper. They are having a cast party, but... there is so much I wish to catch up on." Releasing one hand he touched his fingers against her cheek, stroking down to her jaw before he stepped away from her, snagging the bottle as he did so.

The burning clench of pain in Erik's chest began to subside slowly, enough so that it didn't feel as if he was going to go numb from the ache. Raoul was leaving, but speaking of taking her out for dinner? That just would not do, not at all. His heated gaze shifted from the boy to his Christine. _Remember your promise. _The words might have gone through his mind, but he didn't dare speak them aloud. He was tempted, though. Oh so very tempted. Dampening his lips slowly he drifted his eyes from one to the other, waiting with bated breath.

Within his embrace, she sighed softly. So many memories, indeed so many moments to make up for. Had he loved her? Had she loved him? Children, nay even teenagers were fickle creatures and though she still lingered in that stage of life, her relationships had become much clearer, appropriately enough in the past few months since she had first been blessed by the Angel.

She half leaned into his brief touch upon her cheek before he moved away, speaking of supper when she knew very well of her promise, her obligation and indeed even her desire to stay and speak with her Erik. She frowned somewhat, tugging at his arm as she shook her head quickly. "No, Raoul. I can't. The Angel of Music is very strict, you see. Go on without me." Oh, the indecision! Half of her, the heart of her very being longed only to go with him, to recall the long lost times of their happy childhood.

However, that secretive place she had spoken of only to her Angel lured her into submission to the Voice, willed her feet to root in the room and to never escape its boundaries unless told to do so. Be it she was beautiful and talented – so talented that her very voice seemed to fly down from Heaven, akin to her flight from Skotelof to the Garnier Opera – she was troubled within. She only prayed her friend would understand.

Curiously glancing to her tugging arm Raoul lifted his eyes to her, quizzically, but then there was humor within his eyes. "No, no. You must. I shan't keep you up late," he said with as much seriousness as he could, but then he began chuckling, buying into her little joke. She didn't truly believe that she had an Angel of Music did she? That was just some childhood tale, surely she had grown out of it by now.

Lifting his free hand he rested his palm against her cheek and leaned in to give a kiss to the other side, near the corner of her mouth, then moving back he slipped free from her grasp, approaching the door in his reverse steps. "Go ahead and change, I'll tell Claude to pull out in the front." Reaching back and grasping the handle, the bottle tapped against the hard wood gently, and he held two fingers up while opening the door. "I'll be back in two minutes, Little Lotte. Wait for me." Casting her a wink he turned around and slipped out of the door, avoiding any protests she might toss his way.

She opened her mouth to speak, only to find herself silenced at his tender kiss to her cheek, barely at the corner of her lips no less. Oh, he didn't understand. He _couldn't_. He was confined to the luxury of a black and white world whereas she lived in one dulled and still alive with grey. She watched him go, her brow knit in concern as he disappeared into the hall and shut the door behind him. "Things have changed, Raoul ..."

He would never hear those fated words. With a sigh, Christine turned and lifted her skirts slightly, moving behind the screen to change into her robes. She was determined to stay as she had promised, her Angel a soul she could never stand to disappoint. The heavy fabric was exchanged for her simple corset and underskirts, satin stockings and slippers. She felt more comfortable and free to move. She emerged from behind the screen after the long moment, tying the satin sash at her waist and pulling from her curls the jeweled and ribboned combs.

Erik's jaw set so firmly that he swore that his teeth were going to crack. This fool, this childish fool. Pushing and pressing like an infant in a candy store who whines when he can't get the chocolate he wants. Whines until those around him give in! He was pacing behind the mirror now. Pacing like a caged animal, ready and willing to tear into the people who poked at him with a stick, taunting him with their presence, and their freedom while he was trapped, trapped within this damnable hell! Raoul was becoming that stick, rapping against vulnerable and sensitive parts of him.

Breathing swiftly through his nostrils he exhaled the breath harshly, then turned around with a snapping swirl of cloak to travel down the stairs and toward the hallway. The boy would return, he knew it, he could feel it. He would return and she would give in to him. She wouldn't be able to deny the charming, boyish wiles and would be lured to this dinner, seduced to God knows _what else!_

He came to a panel within the wall when he heard the door close behind the boy, and hissing out air from his nostrils, he fought back the urge to suddenly act as the trapdoor spider and snag him, dragging him screaming into his dark domain, only to end with the sound of a snapping neck. His hands were shaking with the effort of restraint. He would return... but she wouldn't go. He would _make sure of it. _

Once he was sure that the hallway was clear, he snuck out like a thief in the night and producing her room's key from his cloak's inner pocket, he slipped it into the lock and slowly turned it, dropping the chamber in place and barring her within before it was slipped free. He stole back into the wall, sealing it up seamlessly.

The portion of the wall closed without so much as a click. He leaned partially against it and turned his head to glance down toward the corridor. That meddling boy was getting to him more than he should, though he had a reason to be angry. He wanted to drag her away when it was _his_ time to spend with her. Tutor and student. Master and protégée. Not _suitor _and _diva_!

Drawing back into the darkness, he ascended the stairs at the base of her mirror, his gaze focused through the reflective surface upon her form. He had been growing calmer now that she was locked in the room, but the more he thought of that lad, the more irritated he was starting to become, all over again. His anger became a tangible thing, it seemed, stifling the air, suffocating the very flames that rested within the lamps. An unseen breeze, felt, and all seemed to dim.

It his intentions to remain silent, to not lash out, but the more he tried to hold it in, the more it wanted to claw to the surface, snarling. "Insolent boy, this stuffed shirt thrall of propriety! How _dare_ he sponge your glory as if it was his teaching that made your voice perfect!" Where his fingers were once loose, they curled again, tightening to a near knuckle cracking grip. "Brave, brave, and ignorant boy. The lime light is _ours,_ not _his!"_

Such troublesome thoughts pressed heavy upon the sudden Prima Donna. Inexperience made her ill prepared for such a wide mixture of emotions, her brow knit tightly as she idly toyed with the sash of her robe. She traced the outline of each intricately sewn lace pattern, lifting her gaze only when a strange darkness, a prowling suppression, seeped from under the double doors and snuffed the life from each burning candle. Their once glowing vigor gone, the spacious and rather lavish room was left void of any real comforting light, save for the glow that seemed to radiate from the mirror mounted on the far wall.

Uneasy, Christine turned for the door. However, in the half step it took for her to turn from her position and reach for the ivory handle, his thunderous voice had frozen her beneath its power. She would have forgotten to breathe had it not been for the startling anger in his voice, a vengeful and contemptuous tone she trembled beneath. Obedient, a willing servant to his every whim, she turned slowly on her heels as her outstretched palm – halted in flight toward the clasped knob – fell to her side.

Her voice rang with apologetic adoration, her eyes wide and brimming as she spoke. "Glory? No, Angel ... my ... my soul was _weak_, forgive me. I need still_ your_ guidance, _your _direction. Stay by my side, please. When you speak, I listen. I've no other choice!" Perhaps she was simply trying to allude his wrath from her dear friend, or perhaps she had meant those words. Perhaps it was that the past months had revived in her a passion to learn and to love the music as much as he did, as much as her father had.

One can correctly presume it was the last, but still a part of her feared for Raoul and even for herself. After all, had she not promised to keep her attention solely on her lessons? She awaited his reply quite anxiously, turning from the locked door and thus from all willing contact of the occupants beyond its frame.

Unable to expend his energy, his anger, in any other means, Erik began prowling behind the mirror, moving from one side of it, to the other. Expansive, he had a few feet of distance before he'd have to make a turn. It was helping, a little, not as much as pounding on keys might have, or scribbling furiously upon parchments. Tension ran through his body. Every single muscle was taut and felt as if ready to snap.

"By your side..." he stated almost contemplatively, and paused in mid step, his gaze turning toward her."You need my guidance, do you? My direction? _Me_?" Turning upon a heel he slowly approached the middle of the mirror and faced it slowly, his head tipping to the side as molten gold narrowed. "Do you think you dare to find why I hide in shadow?" _No, you cannot be thinking... _He didn't even let that part of his consciousness try to nag at him. His mind was in the process of being made up, and his fingers itched to flip the latch that separated their worlds, the light and darkness.

His voice seemed strangely focused this evening, coming not from a mundane object or even from the walls or carpet of the room itself but rather from some fixed point. It was almost in her grasp, this mystery she had known as her one friend and guardian for a period of time that seemed so long to her. Her eyes had adjusted to the enveloping darkness, their bright hues shadowed by the still ominous glow of the mirror.

The surrounding sprays of roses served little purpose now in this moment between worlds. Just outside the door, a bustling reality of 'Congratulations!' and 'How do you do's' existed. Within, however, dwelt night time, _eternal_, where her dreams were oft indistinguishable from her waking moments. But what was this? His remark stirred in her a sudden tightness in her chest, anticipation overwhelming her as she inched towards the center of the room.

"Oh, yes. Please ... enter at last." She sighed the last remark, his thrall quickly settling upon her with but the mere thought of at last solving the great riddle of her Angel of Music, her Erik. The scene was an eerie and haunting one, the bright ingenue glowing in her pale robes from within the darkness, surrounded in her kingdom of flowers that seemed to bend and sway towards a center point in the room ... that mirror, which served as a constant figure in her encounters with the elusive Angel of Music.


	28. Chapter 28

"Christine? It's Raoul. Are you ready to go? Claude is waiting in the front for us."

_Don't do this... don't. You will regret it. _Still that nagging attempted to make itself known, trying to soothe the irritation, to let him think rationally, but Erik wouldn't listen. He wouldn't have any of it. She was his, molded by him, made golden. Because of him she would accomplish her dreams, her fondest wishes. His fingers curled and uncurled, folding tightly before finally loosening with a slow splaying.

"Look then, my dear," he stated so softly, already beginning to wind that spell with the hushed whisper of his voice. Where his words had once been focused, leading her to one spot with a tone that came directly behind the mirror, now his words were a gentle hand that urged her closer, "Look within the mirror, and there.. there is where you will find me." A spark, just the smallest of flashes, then steady was the glow that lit the back half of the mirror. Magical, it seemed, mystical as the reflective glass became a visible portal to her angel, the flame's glow glinting off of the smooth porcelain first, as if it was floating in mid air.

There was a form there. A man…or angel?

His gaze flicked toward the door upon hearing the handle rattle, and growling beneath his breath he turned all of his focus upon her, his voice drawing, sing song. "Come...come to me, Christine. Approach the mirror and come into my world, away from the unfeeling light. Come to your Angel of Music." There was hardly a movement from him at first, but a latch struck with his heel allowed that glass to give a nearly unseen pivot. Her mind was his, she wouldn't notice. The hand, the beckoning black as it poured 'through the glass', was what ached for her attention.

"Come…"

Raoul tried to wait as patiently as he could, and still antsy he shifted his weight from his left foot to his right. Giving another knock upon the door he paused mid-rap and leaned closer to the wooden portal. Was there another voice in there? He leaned ever more, nearly putting his ear against the hard grain. There was another voice in there, a _masculine_ one. Had she already a suitor? Was that why she seemed reluctant to accept his offer, blaming it upon her strict 'Angel of Music?'

"Christine? Who is that in there with you? Open the door." He tried to sound demanding, but there was more hurt in that tone than anything else. Rattling the handle, as if he had expected it to suddenly be unlocked, he curled his hand, thumping against the door firmly. _Why isn't she answering?_ Not even a 'go away' to indicate that she was even present. "Christine! Open the door!"

The prowess his voice was gaining over the increasingly foreign thing she knew as will power and it drew her to obey his every command. Slowly, her wide and entranced gaze lifted toward the mirror, she moved not within her own control, but by his whim alone. That voice served as the gentle push she needed to approach the glowing surface, and where once her own girlish form had been reflected, there now lingered a strong outline, something akin to a man's figure.

The glow illuminated shadows across her porcelain skin, warm and inviting as she moved closer with each word. _Grant me your glory, dear Erik. No longer hide from me, please ... but come_ _strange Angel._ Had she spoken those words aloud? Was the rhythmic thumping in the distance her heart, or perhaps someone at her dressing room door? Truly, was there any other divinity on this earth such as her Angel?

His enchanting voice lured her in, its tone one that proved irresistibly triumphant, sweetly insidious, haunting and melodious as it shed light upon his soul. The glow of the mirror pierced into her very spirit, until its surface was simply … gone, and what broke forth from that radiant portal was the sliver of darkness that beckoned. Instantaneously, her hand lifted, as if commanded by a string, to fit into his. The light in the darkness, at last.

Though the boy continued knocking in vain, Erik wouldn't let his focus be broken. It didn't need to be there completely, he could wind his power around her with only half of his attention – but no. He wanted her wholly beneath his leash. Only once before had he used this strength… mother.. dear mother. She wouldn't accept him, so he made sure that she had a perfect son, one she could sing to and hold, brush kisses against the perpetually frozen face, make for her the reality she so wished for instead of having a demon for a child.

"Come and believe in me." He hadn't been prepared for that first contact, the smoothing of delicate fingers against that soft hide. Even if there had been a barrier, there was an electric tingle that seemed to spread from fingertips to forearm. Cold, his touch – cold like death – wrapped around her warm hand, and he stepped back drawing her more with his voice than any physical effort.

"Come into my world of night." Now there was no throwing of his voice. It came directly from the lips of the being within her reach. His free hand lifted, brushing against the latch to snap the mirror closed, locking it securely. There had been no magic that caused the glow, simply the lighting of the lantern which he gathered with a curl of fingers. He shook off the shock and led her down the stairs. No further words for the time, only that hypnotic and melodic hum in the base of his throat, a vocal apple the snake was offering this beautiful Eve.

She was vaguely aware, some part of her still hesitant, of the voice that called for her. Muffled, distant, it was almost a hazy fog that surrounded her mind now, turned her eyes against her, indeed her senses. But oh, his voice … such superhuman exhalation and beauty, even in the casual stir of his speech! The hold he had on her small hand was little compared to the hold he held over her mind.

Her slippered feet inched forward toward him without her consent. Enthralled, _intoxicated, _the part of her that offered its plight for resistance found itself being overthrown by the darkness that stirred within her. Drawing toward him, it was then she noticed the sectioned porcelain of his face, hidden beneath the rim of a simple black fedora. And it struck her, in such simple terms, that this Phantom, this _man _had all along been the voice that called to her, spoke her name in dreams.

His clasp on her hand was not a firm one, however it commanded compliance – compliance she was willing to give. Surrendering, she allowed this abduction into his dark kingdom without question, though she paused and glanced waywardly over her shoulder a time or two. It seemed that the further they traveled the stair case, the deeper she found herself within his control, drifting, falling ... into the sweet, blissful dark.

"Christine," Raoul cried again, causing enough of a ruckus that people were starting to curiously glance into the hallway. He didn't notice them, though. Let them think what they would, that the Vicomte had pitched a fit after being spurned by the new diva – a foolish move, indeed. Who_ wouldn't_ want to be at the side of the successful aristocrat?

Jarring the door sharply, he didn't expect the lock to suddenly unlatch the third time and it swung inward, knocking into one of the baskets that had been used for the roses, petal scattered, and he was nearly sent sprawling. He had almost expected to see her entwined with some man, but when the open door revealed the room to be void of people, of _Christine_, he stood there in muted confusion.

All thought came to a screeching halt, and he turned around, hurrying out of the room to head off to the managers' office. They had to be immediately informed. He had nothing but the best intentions in telling them, but unfortunately ... tabloids would have a nice story come the morn.

The pure irony of the lock giving out, allowing him to see the look upon the boy's face as he came to find his beloved gone, stolen away into the oppressive darkness by the haunting presence of the opera house, caused a triumphant twitch to come to Erik's lips. The poor fool looked positively panicked, then dumbfounded.

_You hurt me. I hurt you. _

Turning away the glow of the lantern dimmed slightly, allowing the shadows to sneak closer, enclosing almost lovingly over their forms. She was studying him, looking upon him. And for a moment he thought that he saw a flicker of realization within her eyes. No, no he couldn't have her think him no more than a man. She called him her Angel, and that's what he wished to be. It was an illusion he would keep as much as he could.

The hum of his voice reached her again, poisoning, sedating. "No ... do not look. _Feel._ Close your eyes, my dear. They will do nothing but tell you the truth. It is not what you wish to see." While she needed the lantern to be able to navigate the passages, he didn't, and bringing the lantern low, he blew out the flicker of flame, and settled the copper base against a portion of crumbling stone, leaving it behind to be picked up later. Cat-like, his eyes, and he had lived in the darkness a lifetime. To him it was as if walking through daylight. _This _is _my daylight_, he thought bitterly, but pressed away the sour feeling as he began the thrumming within his throat, keeping the music alive within her senses.

Command, yes ... willingly, she did as instructed. She _felt_ this new found talent he had instilled in her over their months of training. But was it really he, this man that led her into his darkened world of secrets now? She had heard it spoken that angels could take a human form, but one of such strange persuasion? Whose was that face behind the mask, she wondered?

As her eyes closed, the still hazy light of the lantern kept her keen to their surroundings before utter darkness enveloped her. And she found it strange, and yet so simple, that she knew the measured distances between each step as if she had walked their lengths thousands of times. She felt with her hand the cool one that clutched her own. She felt with his voice the same caresses upon her skin she had so many times before, his voice the gentlest of lover's touch.

Only music and the darkness were her companions, her guide the only source of understanding in a dream world of illusion and mysterious black. Christine's heart swelled within her breast, every inch of her skin set on fire in that same fashion that it had every time she had sensed his presence. Surely, this was her Angel, sent from heaven to guide her into a labyrinth where night was really the light of the realm.

Turning his head he glanced over to her, a bit of a smile coming to the side of his lips when he noticed that her eyes were, indeed, closed. Not wishing to end up tripping over a bit of rope or a beam, he brought his gaze forward again while keeping his hand loose upon her own. He had no fears of her struggling, she was coming along with him willingly ... as willing as she could be while under his sway.

The hum was never broken, as if he had an immeasurable amount of air within those strong lungs. Already two floors beneath the ground, there were still five more to go before he'd reach his lair. He was taking the chance of being heard while upon that first section, but at this time he believed that the others would only pass it off as the 'ghost' making noises again. The next floor began to become bare, the number of props and signs of construction were diminishing.

The deeper they had gone, the cooler the air became, and the dark was almost stifling. One sense closed, the others came alive. The feel of hand upon hers was chilled, that smell ... stagnant, coppery, yet bitter. It could have been the water that lay a few stories below, or it could have come from the creature that now held her within his grasp; her Angel of Music, who smelt of death. He had failed to think of what would come from his suddenly rash actions. Over and over he asked himself one question:

'_Now what?'_

Erik Christine's head was dizzy with the assault on her senses. Denied of sight, even when she had dared to peel open those heavy lids she saw only the same suppressing darkness as before. All that was even the slightest bit clear was that elusive slither of porcelain ... a beckon, in the depths. She was keenly aware of his cool touch, the hurried manner of their steps, her heart thundering within her breast.

Quixotic, that in one instant she found herself bathed in bright light, the next quickly tugged into the very antechambers of some hellish, or perhaps ... fantasy world that either promised or condemned her to eternal night. Eyes open and yet seeing little, her ears had quickly picked up the softest of noises in the dark: the scratching of rats as they cleared the way for the duo, soft shuffles from the floors above them. Those, however, drifted away as they made their descent, drifted away ... away, into oblivion.

She was struggling to keep up with him, the dark consuming her, winding her in its heavy embrace. She spoke in a trance, softly so as to not offend her captor, this mysterious creature who, until they drew within reach of some light source, she would hesitate to identify clearly. "Do I dream again?" This was all to surreal, all too be reality. The chill was dreadful, and she only in her corset and chemise, robe and stockings and slippers. Her teeth chattered quietly within her pursed lips, the depths making her increasingly fearful, and yet ... still allured, still drawn by his magnetic voice, she moved on.

Still that single question cast its turmoil through his mind, having him wonder at the sanity of his choice, of this fateful decision. Perhaps he should have trusted her to keep her promise. To wait and see if she would go with the Vicomte and never return. Rare was it that he lost restraint upon himself, but seeing that boy, seeing them in each other's arms, it clicked something dark in him shrouding him in a red mist, green eyed haze.

It was more the chattering of her teeth that made him pause than her words. Easing his hand from her grasp, he loosened his cloak and turning, the weight of the expensive cloth was settled comfortably over her shoulders. Not once did he seek to touch her any further than he had already, as if he was afraid she would shatter, or die on the spot. At any other time he would have been concerned about the hem sliding along the dingy passageway, but at this time he didn't care. He had but one concern, and it was upon the woman he shrouded in warmth and night.

The cloak did much to shield her from the cold, heavy and all the more marked by again the return of her tiny hand into own his thin one. If a hand it truly was. Could this man, or _ghost, _be her Angel of Music? Truly? Could such a simple, mortal vessel express such depth, such beauty and freedom as her Angel had? Oh, but her thoughts came so quickly, left her so soon and faded as if a presence within her mind was urging them out, inviting in the calm and stillness of darkness.

It was he, the Phantom of the Opera. _He_ was inside of her, dictating her mind! He had been all this time. She would have cursed him, reprimanded him for taking such advantage of her innocence and her easily persuaded heart … if only her mind was her own. So, it was that she sank into a trusting and reassured daze, hardly threatened by his heavy eyes but more so silently comforted, as if their depths spoke a world of calm into existence within her.

She was, and would remain, _his. _Her mind had abandoned those lingering thoughts of escape, deserted their attempts at rationalizing and calculating and formulating all sorts of episodes in which she could find release from her captor. She moved with him as if she had thousands of times been led into the glowing pits beneath the Opera House in silence, transfixed between observing her surroundings and attempting to steal a glance towards that ever illuminated mask.

"Come," he said so closely that she should have been able to feel his breath, but he leaned not. "We are almost there." Soft hide touched the middle of her palm, fingertips beckoning her own to uncurl so he could take her hand again. Smooth stone began turning rougher and the scent of water was caught by his keen 'nose.' Deeper, they had to go. But first there was a stallion waiting in the wings of the caverns to assist them within their journey.

Patient and mild tempered, the pristine white horse took to the weight that was settled upon his back without protest. She was far too subject and weak to Erik's voice to continue walking. Instead of climbing upon the saddled slope, he took a hold of the reins to lead the horse and its rider.


	29. Chapter 29

The labyrinth's darkness no longer blinding her, she was brought again into the light, if only for a moment. It dimmed again, but didn't threaten to veil them completely. Leading her through a bending, narrow passageway he gave a subtle smile at how the sound of his voice echoed against the stone. Acoustics always pleased him, especially when there was pleasant music, or song being echoed.

Once they were beyond the stone, the length of a great lake lay before them; the waters warm, a pillowing, swirling mist lingering upon the surface, crawling across the bare stone to reach out to them as they passed, only to shrink back with the gentle gust of air from their movements. With the way they licked up the length of the horses legs, it was hard to tell where the mists ended and the equine began.

He turned to her, assisting her from the back of the horse before removing his hands as if he had been seared by the mere contact. Hesitantly he allowed leather clad fingers to capture her hand again before he turned away from her. Drawing her along the shortness of a dock, he settled his foot in the base of the nearby skiff, drawing it close with a tap of the side against the wooden planks.

He turned to her then, studying her with the quiet softness of amber eyes, then he lured her hand to a lift, wordlessly gesturing her to climb within. There was the brief thought of silencing the lingering hum, exposing her to the silent deception he had built over the past few months, but he couldn't. Not now. She was so close. "Careful," he practically sung to her.

Obediently, she followed. If this _creature_ .. no, this _man_ had in mind to lead her toward the very center of the earth, she would surely follow. Up ahead Christine mustered the knowledge to identify the source of the strange glow. It appeared to be a lake. She had oft heard that one ran directly beneath Garnier's proverbial palace, but never before had she seen it. Besides, what would a simple chorus girl hope to achieve from seeing perhaps one of the most fantastical sights.

Its gray-green waters merged with the slick stones that surrounded it, disappearing into the darkened distance of the catacombs. The mist seemed a part of the water itself, a sort of liquid source stacked atop another. The ethereal glow of this dreamy River Styx illuminated the shore, and she, the soul of one long dead from reality, approached it with her towering captor at her side. But ... _captor_? Why not her Erik? The voices were the same, if not by their quality more so by how close it was now to her – as it had oft been in the Opera House itself, though disembodied and ominous. It still placed her beneath a heavy torpor, lured her into its biding with the subtlety of a siren.

She made again to lift her enthralled gaze, only to find his eyes staring back at her. In that moment, in the split second his amber gaze met her own, she shivered. Such weight, such unspoken pain and loneliness she witnessed in their depths, one eye void of seclusion, the other peering from behind the rim of a glowing mask. That gaze was enough to bend her pliant form into submission, and accompanied by the voice, she practically bounded into the moored boat, what appeared, to Christine, to be a gondola of sorts, akin to the kind visiting patrons from Venice had once told her of.

Once within the boat, she lowered herself to the floor of the boat slowly, only to find her fall cushioned by ... pillows. Comfortable, velvet cushions, to be exact. Even beneath the surface, away from the light of day, she bemused that this man certainly had taste. Not once in their trek had he touched her in more than a gentlemanly way, his hand never straying from her own clutch, his words never softened or coy to perhaps reveal deeper, unspoken intentions upon this innocent, virtuous Prima Donna. Funny – such terms rarely ever went together. Perhaps Christine was an exception to many rules, in more ways than one.

Though he held vicious restraint over himself, there was one thing that could betray him; those eyes. Less than an hour ago they had been molten, tremulous and threatening. Now, oh but now he could only look upon her with absolute adoration. After she had climbed in, he released her hand and lowered to gather the elaborate pole that rested upon the bottom. Slipping the length of the black pole within the equally black water, the glossy surface broke, shattering into rippled images only to be covered again by the gentle, masking mist.

Ensuring she had her balance and that she rested, he pressed away from the dock with his foot, and using the length of the pole he continued that forward momentum. _What will you do with your sweet Persephone now, Hades?_ that cynical voice questioned, heard over his own entrancing hum. Irony was becoming a common thing this evening. Now he compared himself to a common tale, though Demeter was no beautiful maiden. No, he was that blue eyed boy on the surface.

His fingers clenched, twisting against the pole's carvings, then loosened as he exhaled slowly. He wouldn't think of him, not when she employed his thoughts. Her mere presence was soothing. "Since that night," he stated, answering even though she hadn't asked a question.

She clutched the wooden edges of the skiff as by his weight the surface was rocked softly on the water's surface. As they pushed forward, something drew Christine to examine the waters. An unconscious habit, maybe. She had grown to love the sea; such memories she held of it, the red scarf merely one of those.

She strangely needed his cloak no longer, warmth enough coming from her fading fear and unease. She shrugged it from her shoulders, leaning forward to examine the murky waters as they moved on in silence. Silence, that is, until his voice broke the heavy air. She half turned her form, gazing up at him from over her shoulder with questions in her eyes. In the movement, the front of her robe had strayed to reveal a sliver of flesh at her thigh, where satin stocking met gartered belt. She noticed not the exposure, and in her virtually tranquilized state, it was doubtful she would.

The silence lay heavy beyond the circle of sound that permeated with his voice. There was only the gentle lap of water against the boat's sides as he pressed the pole through, not even the thump of the wood to the stone below had made its presence known. White swirls parted willingly for them, only to shut close, defending their path from ever being found, and in those short times that the mist broke too far, he studied her reflection within the water's surface. When she turned, though, his eyes did as well, meeting her own and holding there.

"I have needed you with me," he continued after what seemed like an eternity. Too much, he didn't want to overwhelm the woman-child. He already believed himself a fool for bringing her down here, and didn't need to force himself further down that road, or her from him, with silly little notions of ... feelings. As much as he would love to deny it, it couldn't be ignored, that sensation of thawing ice within his chest every time she looked at him. Only twice now with awareness, but so many times while she observed herself in the mirror.

Inwardly he winced. What would she think if she realized he was not what she wished him to be, and had been watching her all this time behind that reflective surface? She would hate him, think him disturbed. He_ couldn't _let this spell be broken.

Her gentle lips parted, releasing a tremulous sigh that preceded his words. _Needed her?_ Was this her punishment from Heaven, for daring to care for ... to _love ... _such a celestial being? By damning her sight to present the illusion of the masked man who haunted the Opera House? Was that why he had spoken to her such words, to shut her eyes away from the truth for it was not what she wished to see?

Truth seemed irrelevant, a foreign oddity, in this underground kingdom of music and of unending night. Perhaps it was, then, that her Angel, her Erik, was nothing more than a mere mortal. She watched him carefully, her eyes lost in the depths of his own, swallowed whole by the both tender and tremulous worlds within them.

Christine turned once more to take in her surroundings, though she was seeing she was hardly absorbing anything, as if her mind willed her to feel nothing but the numbing power of his gaze. The world here was ... startling. The distant light source flickered off the surface of the water, and as she leaned over the edge of the gondola, her reflection was broken by the momentum they were gaining and shattered by the light that broke upon the low catacomb ceiling. As she studied her distorted reflection – the dark bundle of her curls, the pallor of her neck and collar bone, the softened hue of her cheeks and lips – she let her mind wander upon the meaning of his words: _'I have needed you.'_

Time held no meaning down in his world. Not even the metronome had reign. It could have been only a few moments, or hours that it took to come to the split within the 'road' of the lake, and he pressed the boat right. Always right. Only he knew this forward path to his lair. While the Madame had an idea of where to go, she didn't know the extent of the labyrinth that would be before any interlopers. And the horror, the absolute horror should one roam the wrong way, only to find themselves within a forest. A forest, underground? Illusions. Reflections in a bloom of mirrors; the bane of his existence. To him it was poetic justice, using the very thing that hurt him to hurt others. He had long outgrown his hatred for mirrors, and now used them as he would.

Lifting his eyes from her for the first time during the whole trip, he docked the gondola against the stone, causing it to skid up just a bit against the bank to ensure that it wouldn't slip back into the water. Laying the pole down he climbed from the velvet shrouded bottom and held out his hand for her to take again. More light cast dancing shadows along the walls. There was no fear that any would come this far. There were just too many paths to take. Candelabras doused in wax held half dead candles, whose flames seemed to come alive with his presence.

Down and still further down did it seem they had traveled, in truth but seven stories beneath the Opera House itself, deep within the undergrounds of lively Paris. Indeed, that place seemed so far from her now, almost nonexistent as she allowed her mind to journey through this new and strange world. He, this modern-day Charon, held forth his hand after they had docked. Her form rocked with the impact.

She stood and took in again the gentlemanly gesture, and both willing and unafraid lifted herself from the boat with ease. Her slippers met the surface of the stone floor beneath, the partial exposure of her slender limb covered once more as she stood. Her palm rested in his own, the real source of his control residing now in his eyes, whereas it was that once that Voice was the potion of her temptation and submission. The lethal combination of both proved her a willing slave and servant to his music, he having steered her to the very seat of it's throne.

So small, so delicate. He wanted no more than to hold her, but was afraid that she'd be broken within his grasp, and fall away like dust from a crumbling ember. He had to treat her as delicately as ash; hold softly, but suffer not in letting her go, to watch her float away, never to return. Out of the boat, he stepped back away from her, urging her with a light curl of fingertips against the inside of her palm, then reluctantly he turned his eyes away from her as he passed between two towering candelabras and through a second narrow hallway that would lead directly into his lair.

With their travel, at this depth, night had slowly unfurled its splendor, bringing her into his world with the welcoming caress of chaste touch and song. He glanced back toward her once, then slowly turning his head, a light smile pulled at the corners of his mouth. It seemed so out of place, the thick oaken door, until it was opened and pressed aside, allowing them into the partially flooded lair. Larger than the cavern a story above, the expanse was designed much like a house one would find upon the surface.

Richly decorated, candles brought a soft glow, chasing away shadow, and luring them close, all in one flicker. Every available natural surface had atop it a candle or two, glowing along side numerous other fixtures. The jagged walls appeared, under the radiance of the candles, to be but ornate tapestry and drapes. It was an atmosphere of underworld fantasy, truly. It wasn't until now did he release her hand, his other giving a slow close of the door, shutting them away from the waking world.

"Do you know why I have brought you here, Christine? To this world I reign over? This kingdom?" Though the hum was gone from his throat, his words still carried that soft lilt of music. The cloak had been left behind at the boat, but it was the least of his concerns. Politely he lifted his hand, drawing down the fedora for it to be placed upon a nearby, highly ornate table.

Would this journey never end? The spell was wearing thin for her, or so it seemed. Rather, it was now that she grew accustomed to his gentle song, ever fixed in her mind and indeed, her soul. She followed him past the candelabras, her gaze straying at last from his profile to take in the grand expanse of the cavern. Unlike the secretive hideaways of childish trinkets stashed about here and there, this section of the ever expanding catacombs was carefully decorated and designed.

She felt warmed the moment she entered, and upon his closing of the door, free to dwell without interruption within. Christine stepped forward at last allowed to see his face.Rather, a portion of it. The rest – spanning over most of his brow save for a third and completely concealing his cheek bone, jaw and the area around his eye – was shielded by the smooth and unblemished surface of a glaringly white mask. She had heard of those who had seen his face; they had all drawn back in fear. Yet, Christine felt now, more than ever, a lingering curiosity to find who the man behind the mask truly was.

Of course, an emotion akin to betrayal had stricken her when she found that what had seemed to be her Angel of Music, was hardly an Angel at all but ... a man, or what appeared to be a man anyway. Oh, for heaven's pity upon the girl, what was she to believe? Too conflicted, too estranged by her senses, Christine found it much easier to simply ... surrender. And that she did; to his words, to the depth and burning weight of his eyes, to his powerful presence alone. She did not answer his question, only stood before him, as still and as silent as a patient in a hypnosis experiment.


	30. Chapter 30

If he expected an answer he didn't show it, only turned to her again, approaching. His prowl was almost predatory. The distance was short, made shorter as he stopped a few feet away from her. He hadn't dared to remove his gloves, unsure if he could stand the flesh to flesh contact. Unsure if she would be repulsed by the skeletal lengths or the chill of his skin that he knew was there.

Leather shod fingers were raised again, and a ghost of a smile passed over thin lips. "I have brought you here for homage to be paid. To music. To you," he spoke the last in a quieted whisper. "To be by my side as you wished. To sing for me and my music, to serve. My home is yours, Christine. You are welcome to roam wherever you wish. There is more than what you see, do not let your eyes deceive you." There was more to those words than he cared to point out. So many had hated him for his face, they never see the soul beneath.

With her hand in his, he led her away from the door and deeper into his domain. "Here … here the world above does not exist. Purge your thoughts of it, and let music build your every fantasy, set them free within your spirit – your mind." Moving more center of the lair he gave a slow glance over this main room, lingering only a moment upon the huge organ that took up a good portion of space. His pride and joy, upon it rested the lair's princess. Cream and chocolate, the diamonds of the spoiled Siamese's collar glinted in the firelight.

Strange how his words conquered the distance between them, entwining her in every word as an embrace might, while he was feet from her. It was a comfortable enough home here, but dreadfully secluded – making it quite appropriate for one such as him, she concluded. He had, had he not, desired to keep his physical identity from her for so long, until now? Surely some misanthropic notion lingered in him, and as aforementioned, Christine was but an exception to that rule.

_Homage. Yes. To music ... _She repeated each of his words in her mind, drawing from them the spiritual significance of his instruction. Enthralled, what else could she do but to nod her response slowly, automatically. She was hardly horrified, as so many had been of him. She was drawn, if anything, by his gentle words. His presence alone inspired her, his words ... filled with such conviction, such passion for the music he composed, for the music he instilled in her to love. Merely to love, but for tries that she made, never before to burn in. She inched toward him slowly, unaware of anything but him, and more specifically ... that mask. She had half a mind to reach for it, rip it from his face to reveal what glory that lay behind its concealing expanse. She refrained for the moment, clasping her hands together atop her abdomen as she studied him.

Taking up a candelabrum, he moved it aside and plucked free one of the candles to light another, bringing just a bit more brightness to the room. He could turn on the gas lights, or maybe even the electrical fixtures, but he didn't much like them. There was something ... impersonal in those things. Flame held more fascination, more passion. He bitterly considered that he enjoyed the sight of flames because he was destined for hell.

Turning around he noticed that her eyes were fixed, not upon just him, but the mask._ No.. _he must distract her from it. Close to her, he brought his hand just beneath her chin, never touching, but its presence alone was be enough to raise her head to so her gaze could meet his own. "Here I can help your spirit soar if you just ... close your eyes." Gathering her hand gently, he lifted it and dropped his attention to the smooth back of her fingers and knuckles.

_So close. _She could have reached forth to take hold of him, this tangible form of the Voice for so long denied to her, physical evidence of his existence. Erik. Teacher. Friend. Guardian. Dear and beloved Angel of Music. Her heart soared, her eyes alive and still half dazed by her trance. Her lids were heavy, and yet she was not tired, not faint nor wanting for anything but the sedation of a touch, his touch.

The leather shod tips nearly coasted over the surface, but the warmth of his breath touched more than his hand. "I promise you that I can offer the life you have not had. A better life." Lithe, yet strong shoulders slackened subtly, and stepping closer, nearly touching her with his own form but seemingly afraid to, he lifted her hand, dusting the back of her hand gently against the smooth side of his face. "This … is all you need to know. Savor it, and trust me." Where his eyes were once closed, they cracked open to focus again upon her face. _Please ... trust me._

Music had been the adequate substitute, though beneath the weight of his eyes, she found her control slipping ... slipping still, further from her until it was a mere thought of a life she once knew. Slowly, so sweetly soothing, she was floating – falling from the revealing light of day, where reality was garish and much too sharp, much too impersonal and unfeeling toward the beauty of life to be lived, even the lonely life.

Christine let her gaze linger on his eyes, innocence irrelevant within her thrall. She _needed _him. Like air to her lungs, the vital coin of the realm, she felt suffocated and withdrawn in his silence, in his careful handling of her. Prodded not by his control, but perhaps her own, she turned ever so slightly as he released her hand, and pressed her back into the narrow expanse of his chest, standing flush against him. That hand, still held to caress the smooth surface of his cheek, brushed now with the feather lightness of her fingertips along his temple, downward to his jaw. The heart that was languidly beating within his chest, leapt toward his throat, elevating in pace.

Mortal, with blood in his veins, with the ability to touch, with breath, with _lips_ ... to speak, and to sing. Those same lips sang her to sleep so many nights, projected that angelic voice, soothed every tear, chased away every frightful notion, spoke every double meaning remark, instructed every ounce of her talent, prodded her into flight. _Breathing._

That touch, that simple brush of fingers against his skin, was so intoxicating that he had almost lost himself within it. How long had it been since he last had human contact? His conversations with the Madame hardly counted. The woman made sure to keep out of his reach. Silly Antoinette, didn't she know that he could be on her by time she took a breath to scream? He had no desire to harm her, though. The woman had been of utmost help, and if not for her, he would be dead or still be behind bars, forced to sing, to play, then expose his face. Still the sounds of laughter and screams rang in his ears. Though, not at this moment … all he heard now was the sound of the gently lapping water, his melodic voice and her breathing – or was that his own?

Slowly he swallowed, his breath catching for a split moment as her hand traveled. Pushing and pulling, he was attempting to get her accustomed to the cold of his touch, though, at the same time, he was trying to condition himself to touching. To accept that a lifted hand, didn't mean a smarting cheek soon after, or revealed deformities. He wanted her to trust.

_Move. Do something! _He couldn't stand there as if he had a board nailed into his spine. It took a moment, but then she'd felt him closing in around her, one arm coming to a slow draw about her waist, his fingers curling against the curve of her hip, black against white in a stark contrast. Trembling, the other hand rose, gliding up along the length of her arm until his fingers pressed against the back of her own. Tender was the brush of his cheek to palm, and he exhaled slowly, finding Heaven within his Hell.

She could scarcely find her breath, fearful that in its long intake the moment would shatter. However, at last one was taken, a shivering sort of inhale that sent a tremble through her small form. The touch of his still cool cheek against her warm and brushing fingertips proved an overpowering sensation, and as if sensing his unease, the tension in his chest, she soothingly stroked the strong outline of his jaw, taking comfort in the physicality of him, as he had been for so long, mere words.

That encircling arm took her by mild surprise, the tenderness within its embrace one that silently urged her to further her shower of affection upon him. She pressed against him, sighing deeply as the other arm lifted to capture, hand in hand, her gentle and delicate caress. She complied with each movement of his form behind her, her chin turning ever so slightly inward, his breath ironically warm against her brow. Her fingers splayed across his cheek now paid particular mind to the weight of his hand. She entwined her fingers with his own, nimble little limbs clasped within the darkest ebony.

It took much longer than he would have liked, but eventually the tension slowly began to flood from him, allowing him to relax in this moment, to enjoy it as much as he could before he was again void of warmth. Nothing lasted forever, no matter how much he wanted it, desired it, _needed _it. He didn't fear her straying to the other side of his face to remove his mask. She was too drawn, defenses were abandoned, leaving her helpless to resist his words that were half sung, half spoken now so close to her ear.

Secretly, every word possessed, caressing to surrender in sweet promise. "Think not of the world you knew." Closing his eyes he took in a slow breath, gathering the scent that was all her own. "Listen to your soul, its longing and let it take you there." Threading his fingers between hers in a naturally instinctive reaction, he tightened the close of his eyes, overwhelmed by so many things, too many to be named, to be understood. "Only then ... can you belong to me." Possessively his arm subtly tightened, going against the will of his mind to retreat, to get rid of this feeling that he wanted, yet ... feared. But his body wasn't listening.

Nor was his heart.

Her own soul's longing was ... _here_. In this moment, at last in the arms of the Angel she yearned to know. Thought, any that would have steered her from him, abandoned her. She was clay in his hands, he the potter to shape and mold her into what he wanted her to be. And oh, God those words! So close to her ear, as they had been before, but now so warm and gentle ... with breath, and a heart beat to accompany them!

She was secure in his embrace, and though the sensation of their entwined fingers, their bodies so free and still so strictly restrained, was ever controlling, his voice drew her over the edge, into that sacred release she had so coveted, so pursued. Freedom, in the darkness. _With him._ That was where she imagined herself, _that _was the blissful calm after the storm of her life.

The tightened hold of his arm elicited from within her breast the faintest of gasps, her heavy lids sealing at last over her eyes as she surrendered to his control. As a subtle sign of her submission, Christine withdrew her free arm from its placid position at her side. She lifted it slowly, resting her palm flat against his hand which lay protectively across her abdomen, holding him there.

_This isn't happening. None of this is._ He had to be dreaming. Her touch, oh he would give up a life time just to keep that innocent warmth against his skin, his cheek. The sliding, laying, of her arm over his own made it feel as if breath, heart and time had ceased. She _wanted_ him to remain there. Doubt flooded his mind, reminding him that it was all because he had entranced her, lured her down into this dream that her darker side _must_ give in to. How was it that someone could feel ecstatic, yet utterly crushed at the same time?

There was no mirror between them, yet still she seemed just beyond his grasp; intangible smoke that, in an attempt to capture it, did no more but slip between his aching fingers. "Only you can bring flight to my song, Christine. Through you I will be heard, while remaining away from the prying eyes of others. You are my mask." Shifting his hand against her hip subtly, he sought to thread his fingers within her own, just as she had done with the other that lay still against his face. As much as he tried to completely relax, his instincts wouldn't let him. Touch harmed, and just like a canine that had been struck too many times, he wanted to tuck tail and back away.

_His mask ... yes ... _What potion lilted behind his words that intoxicated her so? Christine was a proverbial puddle at his feet, putty in his hands as each touch drew from her a response unique and all its own. With his possessive arm drawn firm around her waist, her palm lay atop its jacketed length as if to hold herself captive within the tender hold, the movement alone of their entwining fingers – not at his cheek, where already they mingled and met, but upon her shapely hip now – had stirred the loose tie of her sash to part the laced lapels of her robe. Her corseted breasts and abdomen were awkwardly exposed, the boned material hugging every feminine and still yet blossoming curve. Again, she sighed, her very spirit uplifting into infinite bliss on earth, even within his hellish dungeon.

She would willingly serve, _yes. _Help him create the music which only the heavy night could comprehend; her chains, his voice ... the gilded whip under which she would both suffer and worship, his touch. Those hands drifting on his own, somewhere within she idly cursed the impersonal and rather formal expanse of those leather gloves, separating the flushed skin from the desired cold.

His weight shifted, not much, but enough so he could be felt behind her. An inner struggle caused the outer movement. Turning his head, his chin brushed against the inside of her wrist, and the same warm breath that had danced across her ear caressed over the wan skin. "My Muse," he whispered gently, casting the softness of his voice into the delicate shell of her ear, her mind. "_My_ Christine." Lowering his head, the flesh of his jaw nearly touched the wealth of curls and he drew in a slow breath, refreshing his memory with the natural scent of the coiled strands.

Her senses overwhelmed by this pleasurable assault of both his body and his voice, Christine wavered somewhere between reality and dream. Strange, how skilled he was with this intricate and careful art, though she of course was of an impressionable nature, wanting only attention and the love so long denied her. Here, within the arms of her secret and strange Erik, she was at last blessed with each.

"Together we will awe the audience. All of France, if not the world." His aspirations for her were impossible, but he didn't seem to think so. "You and I. My music, your voice – one." Cracking his eyes open he lowered his gaze to her profile, then followed the line of her form toward his arm. His attention strayed briefly upon the parting of her robe, and that was when he loosened his arm from her waist. Not swiftly, though it had been his first intention.

As if sensing that he would soon draw away, Christine shifted with him, a sigh released once more as the moment ended, much too swiftly, as it had surely began. The sudden rush of dampened air to her arms and shoulders startled her somewhat, and she felt strangely abandoned as he moved before her, his hands still holding gently to her own. Slowly he reversed his path, luring her off toward what looked to be a bare wall. "You are tired. You should rest." He had manipulated her mind enough for the evening.

As a spaniel who, no matter how spurred and beaten, still doted on its master, Christine lifted her wide and enthralled eyes to him. Oh, but he was speaking once more! Each word, without grasping its meaning, was absorbed, soaked in as if they were to be the last words she would ever hear uttered on this hard, unfeeling Earth. However ... sleep? Rest? Two foreign aspects here in his darkened kingdom of mist and shadow, softened candlelight filled with the ever present strength of his Music, his Voice. Indeed, he had manipulated her mind much too long, and it seemed that as she outwardly coasted down from enthralling heights, her insides were a mess with dawning confusion and stern realization.

She stood idle for a moment, her hands still in his though her brow furrowed noticeably. A date, a time, a place -- facts and events rushed back to her; the performance, her success, her faint and light headed illness, _Raoul_, and then ... oblivion. Her dressing room ... oh, she saw it as clearly as she saw him! It bent and it shifted, drawing her towards some sliver of black in the glowing, warm light. A hand, ensnaring her own. A man behind a mask, a lake, a Voice, and then ... again, oblivion. Only this time, literally ... tangible.

She fainted then. At last drifting into a heavy and desperately needed sleep.

Yes, as easily as she had caressed and adored him in her seemingly drunken stupor, she first felt the weight of her eyelids drop before all was black, all was drifting away as her form lowered quickly toward the stone floor. His voice and presence alone had kept her from exhaustion, a preternatural feat that, once lifted, remained thus in the state it had strayed from. The slight tug of her hands against his own had him close his eyes, pained. She was drawing away from him. He almost didn't dare to glance back until he felt that pull become firm, and he caught the glimpse of fluttering cloth from the corner of his eyes. He swept close without a moments thought, catching her limp form with his arms tucked beneath her legs and behind her slim shoulders.

Lithe his frame might be, though the strength was quiet; it took little to no effort to raise her within his arms, her head tilted against his shoulder. She weighed as little as a child. Turning around he made up the last portion of the travel with swift steps, drawing him into the room he had prepared for her. It was done in some impossible hope, so he wouldn't feel so lonely. He never thought that he'd actually have her here, right now, within his lair. Or ever.

It was to the bed that he carried her. Lush pillows made up most of it, sheathed in crushed velvet. The chambers were elaborately designed, making the main room of the lair pale in comparison. Perpetually did a lantern glow here, just so he could glance back and see light coming from beneath the door to have him think it occupied. And though he didn't need it, he used it to guide him to the bed's side where she was lowered gently.

Tentatively he reached down, his hand hesitating before he took the very hem of the robe to pull over her torso, concealing bared skin before the blanket at the foot of the bed was drawn upward and draped near her neck. Exhaling gently he glanced down toward the cymbal clinging monkey and chuckled.

"You have company now, my friend." Turning the key upon the lantern to dim the light, he stepped out of the room, lingering only a moment in the door way before closing it quietly.

* * *

_Added note: I was asked just what Phantom I'm using. I'm actually using my own rendition. It's not Gerard; much too lithe, too skeletal, and too pale. No tanning booths in my fic, heh. The mask is the ALW mask._


	31. Chapter 31

It seemed like hours before he finally pried himself away from the door and went to his own room to change from the constricting garments. Of Asian make was the silken robe he had donned; the jacket, vest and shirt were set aside to be taken care of later. Dress slacks and wingtips were traded for comfortable, loose fitting pants and shoes.

Sleep wouldn't come to him so easily; he often held restraints upon that mortal need, regardless of him being the same species. A stroke of genius hit him, refusing to allow him slumber. A manuscript called to him, parchments beckoned his name and the passing of his quill across the pages. Not wishing to wake her, the volume of the organ was low. It was barely touched as his focus was more upon the notes he was writing. Only now and again did he play a measure or two, to draw more from his mind.

For years he had attempted to get somewhere with this opera, only to throw away most of his work and start all over again. Now he knew what eluded him. _Feeling_. How could he write about need, love, the base desires of being wanted...lusting, when he had never felt such things before? It was easy to write of human suffering, of murder and betrayal, but this... He sank into the music, drawing it around him like a warm, soothing blanket, drifting along with the notes as if upon a waking dream.

Crimson ink stained the pages in lines and dots, flowing script, sharp scales and maddening music; his life's blood. Hours drew on, the hellish sun began its rise, chasing away the concealing night, and he hardly noticed the passing of time or the burning down of candles, leaving less light to work with.

Even within his own self induced trance that question lingered upon his mind; what would he do with her now that he had her here? He couldn't keep her entranced forever. Eventually she was going to snap out of it, and he'd have to explain everything to her, confess to his deception and face the crime of his ultimate theft. No matter which way he wanted to look at it, he had kid-napped her and brought her down here. She hadn't struggled, she hadn't protested, but it was all his doing. If he hadn't warped her mind, she would have screamed her fool head off the moment he revealed himself within her mirror.

It was the fury of this realization that poured through the notes he wrote, he played. Notes that he dared not let the public ear sample for fear of a mass manipulation, a raping of the senses and a violating of the body, much like he had done to her in her sleep. _Poor man_, the only solace he gained was in his music. Never to know the willing kind touch of another. How jealous was he of that robe, of the blankets that covered her, even the music box that got to remain with her for the full of the night!

Drawing in a breath, he reached for the quill, then paused and flipped toward the beginning of the score. He wouldn't think of that all consuming, violent lust, only the softer lilt, the tenderness and yearning. Closing his eyes to the music in his mind, he slid his fingers over the notes, as if reading them with his touch, drowning in the feel and sound of them.

Christine slept to dream, and yet no dream found her. One she could recall, anyway. The comfortable bed she awakened in was not her chaise in her dressing room, which she had accustomed herself to sleeping upon the nights when the Voice had kept her half entranced, stripping her of all boundaries, exposing her soul. Nor was it the bed at dear Mama Valerius'. Though wanting of proper linens, it was still comfortable and her own. No, this sea of deep mahogany and velvet was one that embraced her with every ounce of warmth and lavish comfort anyone could hope to gain.

She had arisen to the soft, clear quality of a distant musical device, a box of some sorts that produced a joyous and yet somehow melancholy tune. Incoherent still to her surroundings, the woman-child rolled from her side to observe from under heavy lashes the bed in which she had slumbered, the manner of her appearance – rumpled by sleep, tousled in likeness to Aphrodite as she rose from the foam of the sea to greet the world – and finally, the source of that gentle sound.

Mustering her strength proved quite a task, her form still drained and strangely sore from the previous night. She lifted her eyes to absorb the darkened atmosphere, the thick black veil of intricate and exotically patterned lace shielding much of this room she rested within. The silent angel sat still for a moment, brushing her palm to her cheek as if to recall in that simple motion what prodded in her mind.

_I remember there was mist ... great clouds of mist that covered a lake ... _images came and went, like snapshots that faded in and out in those oft scandalous pictorial devices the stage hands had shown several members of the corps de ballet, exciting from them coos of fascination and assured praise for such a brilliant discovery. _Candles all around ... and a boat, which within held ... _

"A man." The soft tinkering of the musical box began its tune again, and as she lifted her gaze toward the source of the sound, she found, staring back at her, as amiable and everyday as could be, a little lead monkey, bedecked in Persian raiment and clutching in his moving arms two golden cymbals.

The perched creature captivated her, her arm lifting to push aside the thickened veil. She shifted across the pillows and tapestry that had served to conserve the warmth her young body had emitted in her slumber, her stockinged feet slowly meeting the plush Persian rug. And still the soft melody of the music box continued, clashing in contrast to some far off tune that lured her from that room into the main chamber of that forever night time place.

The skirt of her chemise brushed silently along the stone floor as she lingered there in the doorway of her apartment. From her point of vision, she could just see the furiously concentrated stature of a man seated at the grand organ that swallowed the entirety of the catacomb wall. The music he produced, in itself, was ... gripping, a different sort of melody that she had never before heard. Such carnal ferocity behind it, such frustration to fuel it, all the sadness in the world making it unbearable to withstand.

Christine trembled, stepping forth into the dimly lit chamber as she spoke aside to herself, reminiscing from the night before. Her soft voice was barely a whisper, and even to her own ears it sounded strange and out of place in the vastness of this chamber of eternal night. Again, that vision. The darkness embracing the light, hands entwined, souls held upon the crest of a disastrous wave. She drew closer to his back with each step, with each pulsing chord.

Departing from the music, he picked up the quill and improvised certain areas, subtly changing just to bring out the feeling of longing and the playing of passion. The gentle teases, of a lover skirting just beyond one's grasp, with but a coy glance in her wake. He saw this. Saw it all. Don Juan, the Casanova and seducer, finding his game turned upon him, lured by a pretty face and flawless form. Lured and taunted. Drawn to want and love no other.

While one hand wrote, the other slid along the keys of the organ, drifting from one gentle chord to another, barely touching against the carved ivory. Then he drew back, his elbow settling against the wood of the ledge, for his brow to be propped upon the meat of his palm. Nameless still, the heroine changed this man, pulling forth things he had never felt before with casual and calm touches.

Scales lowered, seducing with its gentle melody as fingers smoothed along cheek and jaw. He closed his eyes, unconsciously responding to her touch; tipping his chin up and sliding his forehead from his hand, which lowered to rest along the edge of the propped wood. The realism of his work wasn't a foreign thing. Often the anger that was felt by the people in the script projected in his own temperament, until he had to cease writing before he was thrown into a maddening rage. Blackened feather listlessly licked the air, fluttering as his grip shifted upon the quill.

Oh, how that music almost ensnared her too, as it had but hours before! Curiosity and attraction drew her onward, and at last she reached the step to which she had but to climb to find herself directly behind him. She approached him cautiously, absorbing the lilting and still passionate notes of his song and using its spur to only further her investigation. With the slight turn of his head, merely to observe the notes he had written in blood red stain, Christine caught a sight at last of that mask.

What secrets hid beneath its porcelain surface? What attraction held her fixed by its ominous glow there in the dark, deep beneath the bowels of the Opera House and fast approaching the very gates of Hades? What could such as a man as her Erik, this divine teacher and vessel to the Angel of Music – yes, but mere vessel for she had yet to really muster a probable theory to console her senses – wish to hide from the world behind the simplicity of a mere mask?

As she stepped onto the platform behind him, she dared in her lessened state of trance to again feel with her fingertips the smooth, perfect side of his face. So natural, as if she was always this casual in approaching him without warning, hard at his work. She leaned forward over his shoulder, speaking in a half question, half statement. "Who is the man behind the mask?"

Christine was fascinated by his skill with the massive instrument, the way in which he could barely touch its ivory keys and yet music flowed easily from it. As he responded to her touch, she was further drawn to that shielded counterpart of his visage. She shifted from one shoulder to the other, her soft palm smoothing from his jaw to span the length of his neck and shoulders, at last settling upon his back.

Her freed hand raised, lifting slowly, hesitantly, to take the first brazen and cautious touch of his mask. The pallor of her hand stood out against the crisp, white surface. His eyes closed, he would surely see her not as she leaned over him, almost as if she was to press her pallid lips to that portion of the mask that made up most of his strong brow. No, she but examined it in silence, her fingertips dancing over its smooth and polished facade easily.

Seemingly, she made no move to remove it, only admired its craftsmanship and pondered on just what it had to conceal of him beneath it. 'We all wore masks, do we not?' she heard once. She found it somewhat appropriate that his was literally. Oh, but ... no ... no, this curiosity would surely kill the cat, for it was much too insatiable, of much too much importance to deny.

A name.. he had to come up with a name for this mysterious girl, for the one that had captured the man's mind, his heart, unknowingly protecting it from others, only to play with it herself. _Protector._.. Aminta. His fingers twitched again gently, and quill's tip scratched the name in dead air, leaving the parchment void of its actual touch.

Entranced by his own music, his own visions, his hero wasn't the only one that was being drawn. He canted his head, unknowingly pressing his skin into her trailing touch as it passed from jaw to neck. Heat that spread from the placement of her fingers brought his throat to shift with a shallow swallow, and he exhaled slowly with a parting of his lips.

So real, he could feel his creation's breath upon his own skin, close. So tormentingly close. He hardly noticed – no, he _didn't_ notice – the warmer grace of fingertips, the elevation of breath, or the thrumming of his heart within his ears. One had become the rapport of drums while the other caressed in the gentle hush of cellos and violins. Splaying his fingers against the unfeeling wood grain, he curled them slowly, pressing the tips and part of his palm along the surface. Another swallow and tongue's tip drifted in vain, a dampening stroke along his lower lip.

Willingly he let this dream descend upon him, forcing him to abandon all rational thought. And where music played within his mind, the lyrics had begun to be formed with the flooding of fire through his veins, his soul. Brows faintly furrowed at such strength, almost as if pained, though there was naught but pleasure there, and slowly a shuddered breath was exhaled upon feeling her hand against his skin.

The quill's end tipped to the side, feather lowering enough to brush against the parchment as he became malleable beneath the prodding path of her hand; drugged and intoxicated just as easily as she had found herself. Letting the quill drop completely, the tip stained the side of the paper, leaving behind a mark akin to the splatter of a blood-colored droplet.

She stared in wonder upon his face, so placid and still ... so beautiful, _angelic_, despite the presence of that mask. He was handsome somewhere beneath those layers of loneliness, those layers of ice she had thawed, if not completely melted, from around his heart. His strong jaw inspired an honorable and gifted masculinity, bordering upon femininity with its leanness. His eyes, though closed were a glowing predatory amber, surrounded heavily with lashes just as a man should have.

A mortal, breathing, living man with desires, and a heart, and veins that pumped through them the very same intoxication that had sedated her willingly hours before. Her fingertips brushed over the exposed portion of his brow gently, her breath warm against his chilled skin as she leaned forward further, barely a whisper above him.

_Poor, poor Erik. Is this the only place you can find solace, know of desire; in your mind? _No, not cynical taunting now, only this ... this heat. This overwhelming heat – that suddenly turned to chilled ice as, within fateful seconds, her fingertips worked gently to slide beneath the porcelain shell. Her wrist gave way and pulled completely from his visage that concealment of secrets. Horrifying, loathsome secrets! Dreams and illusions both shattered at her betraying, malicious little hand. She could not look, nor speak nor scream of any catastrophe other than what that exposure revealed. How she wished she could take back that split second, while she stood frozen in place.

His eyes snapped open quickly, but his head turned ever so slowly as he stared dumbfounded at the porcelain that rested in her grasp. Seconds ticked by, his mind trying to make sense of what had just happened. Then it only knew red; a scarlet mist that veiled all sensibility, and his eyes, now a blazing, incandescent gold, lifted to her horrified gaze.


	32. Chapter 32

"Oh… _oh, God .." _How could she ever hope to forget that face, one half so delicate, so beautiful to gaze upon and to touch – and yet, the other was hideousness personified! The image was burned forever into her mind, and all loving thoughts of that tender Voice and those pleasurable caresses were gone, fleeing to hold in their stead an image of a distorted oddity. And she, the prying little Delilah, who tied him with her deceptive tenderness to his throne and cut his strength – his mask – away, stood now trembling before him with the porcelain in her hand.

Every inch of her screamed to run, to turn away from the sight, but she was paralyzed. Frozen. Captured, and hardly in the way in which she had so desired to be. _Why have you done this, Christine! _She cursed herself in the time it took him to slowly stand, that gentle and tender gaze now angry ... violent ... deadly, as he towered above her. Christine took careful steps backward, unknowingly approaching the edge of the platform in her blind trek. Her heart thundered in her ears as she gazed upon this ... pitiful and deformed creature, the man with Death's very head upon his lithe shoulders.

Fingers, bare of glove, slowly curled, white knuckled as he moved toward her, his eyes narrowing faintly. _Betrayed_! Oh but truly, who was the betrayed one here? Christine, for he stole her away with deception and manipulation? Or him, for her lack of trust? With one careless, uncaring gesture she yanked away his dignity, sapping the veil he had wished to keep. He would have shown her, one day, if she had but asked. But she hadn't. She came up behind him, her fingers poised like daggers for that killing blow.

When she began to retreat, staring, with a scream undoubtedly buried within her throat, he snarled low in his. "Is this what you wanted to see?" he questioned slowly, the hypnotic, serene quality of his voice gone, replaced by an audible chill; loathing and hatred personified. But he seemed oh, oh so calm, save for the burning rage that lay behind molten eyes. She retreated, and he stalked, tracking her. Predator to prey. "Dare you continue to stare upon this monster, this beast of a _loathsome_ gargoyle?" Where he had been tense before, ready to retreat, now it was to attack, and his fingers uncurled as he closed the distance between them.

Christine knew not of the ledge on the platform until she had reached it. In her retreat she stumbled backwards and fell, quite suddenly. Her stumble and subsequent landing didn't elicit the reaction it had earlier. He didn't seek to catch her fall, or to brace her some how. The mask she held in hand went with her, her eyes wide, ever fearful, as she hit the stone floor with a thickened _thud. _A struggled shriek left her, her trembling form a bundle of wild and untamed curls, somewhat tattered lace, and legs that sprawled in her furthered retreat.

She crawled from him as he approached, her back meeting suddenly and rather painfully the expanse of a chilled surface. Pressing to it, she turned her face away in vain from the terrible and menacing sight. His words sent shots of terror directly through her, piercing as a knife as they carved into her heart. Struggled whimpers came from within her, her lower lip trembling as she clutched her eyes closed tightly, pulling her legs toward her. The mask, having been released, lay at her side ... staring at her from the floor with its single eye, its curve of a nose, its chiseled cheek bone and brow. Mocking. _Haunting_. Urging her to look once more to the face it had so gracefully concealed.

Stepping down the dais stairs, he followed her gaze to the mask briefly, then flicked his eyes back to her face as he ate up the last bit of distance. Feet on either side of her legs, he crouched, settling a hand against the tapestry over her right shoulder. Right hand lifted, taking a firm hold of her chin just as she turned her eyes back to him. He stilled her head, ensuring that she didn't turn from him, even as he leaned in close, but a few inches from her face.

"Cannot look upon me now? Cannot bear to expose yourself to _this_?" This wasn't the Erik she knew, the Angel of Music that had cradled her so gently before. Not this hateful and hating creature. No, it was as if that mask exposed more than just the horrid face, but the very ghost, the phantom that haunted the walls of the Opera House.

Stern, stone set features softened only a bit. "Cannot do more than fear me? I can show you that there is more than just this, that there is a man beneath this. You will learn. Then your fear will turn to love." His fingers splayed slightly, enough to dust a lingering touch along her jaw, then he grasped tightly again, his jaw clenching with a guttural rumble of a growl. "_Damn_ you! You _had_ to see. You could not trust Erik, could you!"

In that horrifying moment, she could not have prayed with more passion and conviction that the very wall would open up and swallow her entirely. Darkness would have been a comfortable substitute for this, _this monster_ that kneeled before her a fate worse than death. Oh, but _he_ was Death! and this was her punishment for her curiosity, and the still lingering first taste of a desire he had awakened within her in what felt a dream ... or an eternity before now. But she could not look away. Morbid fascination held her gaze not to his own, but to the great gaping holes that made his eyes, his mouth, ... and his nose.

_So close._ Once she had savored this proximity, now she only wished to escape it. Her lips curled in her fear, tears brimming in her wide eyes as he clutched at her chin, showing neither compassion nor tenderness, but cruelty ... betrayal. He had promised to instill in her everything she dreamt of, if only she could trust the one exposed region of his face alone. So superficial. It seemed that what really was exposed, uncovered, was an enraged and bitter soul, and bless his aching and angry heart, Christine wept in intermingled fear and pity for him.

Her jaw twitched and tightened as if she were trying to speak, but words left her, and if she was not pale with the first sight of his hideous face then she was now, dying of shock and all too aware of her surroundings all at once. Raoul was right ... her better and yet weaker judgement was right ... and the promise her father had made was just an empty dream for her to cling to when he left her alone in the world. _This_ wasn't an Angel, but a demon raging between the contortion of a face.

Her wide eyes, that blank stare, one that dared not to meet his gaze. She was letting it run over the expanse of his face, across the horror that he had hidden for as long as he could remember – since a boy, since his _birth!_ His fingers remained buried within her jaw, nearly bruising the delicate flesh that laid beneath the blunted tips; nails shallowly biting into the pristine surface.

Where his voice was a growl just seconds ago, it was almost soothing ... strained: "I have frightened you." Breathing out a sigh he narrowed his eyes slightly. "No, no. I _am _frightening you. Well, my dear, I dare say that is nothing I can prevent!" The bark of laughter that came was short lived, and he jerked her closer to his face by that grasp he had upon her own. "Oh, take a good look, a very good look. Let your eyes feast upon my cursed ugliness. I'm a rather good-looking fellow, eh? Perhaps.." trailing off, musing, he pulled his head back slightly, enough where he could get a better look at her terror.

"Ah! Yes, perhaps you think that this is a mask as well? That your gilded angel lies beneath this horrid facade?" Releasing her jaw, he jerked his hands down, taking a hold of her own with the swiftness that was better suited for a striking snake. He then stepped back, pulling her along with him, forcing her to a stand.

It was by the tinge of pain that began within her chin and jaw that her limbs came to life, and in the same instance he had pulled her closer, her arms lifting albeit sluggishly to try and force him back. The thundering of her heart in her ears was deafening, as was the ferocity with which her breath escaped her. She began to whimper, softly at first and then with a growing horror as she felt herself being lifted then – and though she was unwilling to join him, what other choice had she? If she refused, who knew what would happen to her!

She lurched forward, colliding with his form before she scrambled back, tugging her hands against his hold. "No, p-please! I-I'm sorry!", was all she managed to choke out, her voice thick with her tears of both fear and a strange pity that tightened in her breast. _All you had to do was _trust_ him, _and her mind turned against her when it willed her eyes to drag towards his face once more. She flinched visibly with the sight of it, recoiling as best she could at arms length.

She was sorry! Lord in Heaven was she ever sorry! Could she ever forget those eyes as they burned first in passion for her, then hatred? Could she ever forget her own reaction when first confronted with the chilling fact, that her Angel of Music was just what Raoul had said him to be – a childhood fairytale, and nothing more. Even if her father had promised her ... even if he had clutched her hand that last day in the hospice, swore to her that all great artistic geniuses were visited by this Celestial being, and thus vowed to send this creature to her .. it was all a mere sequence of events. The right time, in the right place. And despite her better efforts to preserve some sort of beauty in truth, dreaming would inevitably end for 'Little Lotte'.

His fingers tightened around her wrists, holding fast as she tried to yank away from him again; his grip was as relentless as his anger. "Too late, my dear! Too late for 'I'm sorry.' You wished to see and now you shall. Come! Come see if Erik wears another mask!" If there was no horror found within the unveiling of his face, then surely it would be there when he forced her hands to touch upon that twisted and thread bare flesh; cool and clammy like that of a corpse from his frustrated sweating.

"Do you feel another? The seams maybe? No, no, that's not a mask. That is skin you feel, _bone!_" He kept her close, refusing to let her get too far from him. Where before, just hours prior, he had been hesitant to touch her, to have her form against his own, now there was little space between them. No escape as long as that iron grip remained upon her slender, fragile wrists. "Go on. Try to tear it off!"

She shattered the air with a brief scream that faded into her desperate sob, her tiny hands lifted on _his_ accord towards the mangled flesh of his face. Simply looking upon it was horror enough, but to _touch_ it? Her tousled curls quivered as she quickly shook her head to and fro, her bared heels dug painfully into the stone floor as she tried in vain to escape his grasp. The pain that throbbed within her chin now mirrored that in her slender wrists before her desperate tearing from him ceased all together and she had little choice but to oblige. The first contact drew forth a moan from her throat, disgusted as she turned her face away and closed her eyes tightly. Even in that once comforting gesture she could still see his Death's head behind her eyelids, which only set an involuntary curl to her fingers, her nails scraping the riddled flesh which he pressed deeper.

Though there was pain within the cutting of nails to skin, he didn't feel it. His sense of betrayal, heart ache and anger was too great. He pressed her fingers to dig deeper where soon the copper of blood would mingle with the salt of his tears. "You believed Erik handsome. An _angel._ You would've returned.. And now, now you've ruined everything." His voice had drawn to a broken whisper that came completely shattered with the sound of her scream. It was that that tipped the scales anew, further burying them when a choked sob passed over her lips.

He released her wrists, and pressed her back again, this time with the chill of his hand crossing over her damp, parted lips and she visibly blanched. She feared either suffocation or some other extreme way to die at his hand. And his 'soothing' was hardly a balm to the wound on her already fragile and tarnished spirit. "Shh.. do not cry. Stop.. stop crying," the words, repeated within a murmured whisper, were meant to be comforting and warm, though they were rough and forced from his clenching through harshly. Thin fingers of his other hand buried within her hair in a firm clasp instead of seeking some other purchase. He warred with himself; against what he felt for this woman and what his near-natural instincts were, to destroy what had harmed him. That urge threatened to come clawing to the surface.

"Don't.." he hissed through set teeth, his throat shifting with his swallow. Any further screams, any struggle, he wouldn't have known of. Not with the sudden pain that burst center chest and streaked madly, numbingly, down the length of his arm. Her hands fell to her side, one fluttering slightly over his mask. Tears streamed despite his better efforts to calm her, but some ray of comfort was found merely in the notion that he had at least tried to soothe her. However, something was wrong. His eyes had glazed, his face contorting into a show of pain as, at last, she was freed from that grasp. He was slinking away from her, while she remained too frightened and dumbfounded to move from that spot.

A pang in Christine, an involuntary dedication she still held for him lifted its brow beaten head within her. _Help him! _Angel or no, guardian or murderer, the humanitarian in sweet and still so trusting Christine lifted her from her huddled position to watch him. The hand resting on the mask, took hold of it slowly, raising it to settle in her lap as she sat forward, attentive and still trembling through her tears.

Mirroring the previous actions, this time it was he that stumbled in his half crawl and landed soundly on the ground, all of the air forced from him in one heavily grunted groan. _Oh God, _not_ now. Damn _you,_ too. Damn you straight to hell. _Blasphemy was paid for in the form of a sharper pain, one that brought a blackened cloud before his eyes and he whimpered piteously. A form that stood so strong and powerful before her just moments ago was reduced to this trembling, near-sobbing wreck. There were tears welled within his eyes, but no air to give them voice.

Turning his head slightly he brought unfocused eyes toward her, and grimaced sharply at the pain and at the realization that all was ruined. That she would never forgive him, and now...now she could never be free. _At least you get to look upon heaven before you're sent to burn_, he thought bitterly, and a raspy chuckle managed to slip from his throat. That strangled chuckle, the manner in which he crawled toward her in his pain, she was stricken with a tinge of fear once more, and inching backward, pressed her shoulders once more to the surface of the tapestry frame.

His fingers clawed against the ground, hand turning toward... her? The mask? "Pl-please.." he whimpered softly, his fingers curling gently. Which did he want more? His mind weighed the options: regain his dignity with the replacement of the mask, or have her skin be the last thing he'd ever feel? One tipped the scales more and he pressed against the ground, painfully inching closer until she retreated from him, and he lowered his hand slightly. She couldn't even bare to touch him. Did he repulse her so much that she'd find horror in an innocent graze of fingers?

There was pain in his heart, but it had nothing to do with the erratic, struggling beats. This was the end, he knew it. _Oh please let it be the end. Put a rest to my miserable existence. _But just to spite him God had a sense of humor, and already he felt the pain subside just a smidgen. _I hate you._

God, what catastrophe struck this pitiful creature? Half stunned by the sudden shift of roles and still subdued by her fear, Christine sat frozen, helpless but to watch this horrifying and heartbreaking scene unfold before her. She opened her mouth as if to speak, but no words came. Tears only flowed upon her pale cheeks, the same as they had nights ago in the deserted auditorium, when this same writhing and contorted man lured her into the belief that he was indeed her Angel of Music, sent from the Heavens by her beloved Papa.

_No ... _there was no Angel of Music. _There was only Erik. _She sat still and silent for a moment, observing him warily before the digits that clasped that white surface lifted and handed across the distance that separated them ... the mask that served as the instrument to hide his face from the world.

Unable to suppress the strangled sob, he slid his fingers against the porcelain and eased it from her grip, then drawing his hand down he lowered the rest of his form and his head, bringing the distorted portion of his face into the back of the mask. Replacing it with trembling fingers he lowered his brow to the line of his arm, breathing heavily. He wanted that pain to continue, to grow stronger. Then he wouldn't have to see the horror on her face, the shock and pain. Her eyes were open and there was nothing he could do to shut them, short of doing as he had with his mother, dragging her deep into the depths of illusion where there would be no escape.

Pity became the source of her silently shed tears. As she watched him take the mask, returning it to cover the deformity of his face, Christine's guilt only deepened. Her heart felt heavy, and her eyes were downtrodden. She prayed for her own soul ... for her sanity, her return to the surface – if ever – and then for the life of this beautiful catastrophe that lay weeping before her. All had fallen silent between them, each in their tears. In the midst of this, came Christine, to console, despite her fear, the heart of someone other than herself.

There was no thrall, no alluring voice to captivate her mind. The seeping mist was outside these walls, the dark atmosphere hardly lending its influence to sway her attentions. A softened palm placed ever so gently upon his shoulder drew his attention, the cupped hand warm, though trembling. She dared not move to touch his cheek, nor to smooth his hair from his brow in idle comfort. She simply sat in her place, leaning her weight on her free palm as the other moved slowly over his shoulder. Gently, ever so gently.

The fingers of his left hand remained clenched, the twitching, trembling pain enough to keep muscles locked. His brow still set to his arm, his hand curved up, pressing beyond his temple and through the dangling strands of his hair, haphazardly destroying the composed, meticulous appearance he so often held. Fingers curled, holding upon the dark strands.

He hadn't expected her touch after she pressed his mask to him. He half expected her to run out of the lair and seek out the boat to try to navigate her way back to the other side of the lake. She was still here, though. Still here and pressing her hand along the back of taut, silk covered shoulders. Forcing back the burning knot from his throat, he lifted his head slightly to try to focus upon her, wanting no more than to close that distance, to be near her, to regain that closeness that they had felt just the night prior. But once again, everything he touched became destroyed.

No words upon his lips, his breathing slowly began to retain its normal rate, though the stinging numbness continued its travel from chest to tingling, clenched fingers.


	33. Chapter 33

How long had they sat just as they were; she gently stroking his shoulder and he – loathsome and desolate creature – sobbing quietly in his agony ... both in soul and in form? Christine inched forward, her chin dipping as she drew his gaze into her own, brimming tears threatening not because of fear, but in sympathy for this poor creature.

What crossed through her mind was the flicker of his betrayal, his grand and elaborate lies to convince her innocent and trusting heart that he was an Angel of Music, sent to instruct her. And now she had fallen in love with him – not necessarily _in _love, but still she felt the weight of those binding chains. She had first felt their heavy pressure the night he lulled her into sleep, and again she had been brushed with their ball-and-chain heaviness when Raoul had taken her into his arms, a love lost but never wholly forgotten. It was the same now, this beautiful and hypnotizing creature that lay broken and wounded by her own prying hand, eliciting from her the first tinges of love ... and of fear. She had seen too much. She was his now, forever the paramour of eternal night.

She drew a breath to speak, her pallid lips trembling, and she pulled her hand away from its consoling appraisal upon his shoulder in the same instant. Her strained voice was sad and torn, heavy with exhaustion and great pity for this fallen man. "Poor, unhappy Erik ..." She longed to stroke his 'perfect' cheek, however dared not in fear he might be spooked, as skittish and as vulnerable as he now was laying in a great bundle of slender, sob sore limbs before her.

_Poor, unhappy Erik. Poor... unhappy Erik. _Oh he could have keeled over right then and there and would have been happy. Her seemingly understanding words and the path of her hand against his shoulder left him with an odd feeling, to be sure. Almost...accepting? His eyes cracked open slowly and he tipped his head up, settling his gaze upon her, trying to focus. Hazy she looked, blurred and misty, almost swirling like the fog that crossed upon the glassy lake.

"Th..that is ..all.. I am." He shifted his arm out, touching light of her gown's hem to draw close and press his lips against before he gathered the limb beneath him in an ill attempt to rise. He got as far as raising his shoulders a bit more from the ground. "That is all... I am. Not...not your Angel. Nor a Gh-host. Only... only poor, unhappy...Erik." The hardest words he had to say; admitting to the deception.

Grimacing out a guttural grunt at the surge of pain, he closed his eyes tightly, asserting his will to force back the powerful discomfort. Lifting his right hand, he settled it against his chest, fingers curling into the expensive silk, as if that clenching hold would calm the erratic pace of his heart. Dampening his lower lip, he shifted most of his weight to his left elbow, finally getting some feeling back into it.

Oh, image such a simple girl's cruel and unjust heartbreak to find that her Angel of Music was but a man, _Erik _... one and the same. Phantom, the 'Opera Ghost' that supposedly haunted Box Five, Angel from heaven blessed – _whatever he was – _the poor woman child had undoubtedly felt for him such compassion and whole hearted longing that even now, were she to hope in vain to return to that life she knew before, she felt assured that the process of forgetting him would be impossible. T

he foreshadowing intensity of the wedding-night scene from _Romeo et Juliette _sprang to her mind as she silently observed him, a certain verse standing forth from the rest. _Destiny has chained you to me forever! _No ... it simply could not be. Her father had promised her the Angel of Music! If he was not this beloved creature of her every dream and waking moment, then surely her dear Papa had been accursed to the depths of Hell. Or, no such Angel existed amongst the ranks. No ... no, what this Erik was, was a punishment, this mortal form was her reaped rewards for daring to love such a Celestial being from the Beyond.

While the chorus girls could boast of wealthy patrons who flirted and brought them treats, Christine could only hope to secretly know that it was Death himself that had cursed her, loving her through this ... this_ gargoyle_. But for the tries that the poor child made, she could not hate him. His voice alone had filled her spirit in ways she could have never imagined, and in the embrace of his words and his arms, as each sensation heightened to sweet intoxication, she had heard, she had_ felt_, as she had never felt before.

He hadn't looked up at her again. Not only was it shame that kept his gaze down, but he knew she had to be crushed at this lifted veil. Pulling in a slow breath and wincing at the end of it, he pressed up again, dragging his leg beneath him stubbornly. He wouldn't let this pain keep him prone, so weak before her. He wanted to reach to her again, to touch bare skin against some part of her form, but he couldn't bring himself to do so. Not again, never again. He didn't want..._this _destroyed more than he had done so already.

Slowly moving, so as not to force his body to move more than it desired, he lifted his hand from his chest to smooth his fingers through his hair, effortlessly gliding it into place, regaining the neat appearance he so often had. Careful of the tie near his nape, he lowered his hand again while pulling back to a half-slouched kneel. Bent and cradled, he kept his left arm close to his side, doing his best to ignore the throbbing within his shoulder and the upper portion of his chest. "Di-Did you rest ... well?" Attempting to take the focus from him and the ache, he finally lifted his head to settle his gaze upon her.

Christine tore her thoughts from such things. Well, attempted to at least. Of course she was hurt! Never had she felt so lonely in his presence as she did now, yearning for sleep to bring her escape from this fearful reality once more. Perhaps she figured that when she awakened, she would be comfortable in her own bed in the boarding house, or even back under the thatched roof of her childhood cottage, resting by the fire with a boyish and immature Raoul to comfort her from this dream that stirred from her a tremble. Anywhere but here, where now she could not look upon him without fear he would once more release that violent rage, wrap those deathly cold hands around her neck, and suffocate from her the very life he had once so inspired.

His question surprised her, considering he was obviously in great pain. A part of her wished to assist him, he her captor that she resolved now to regard with careful obedience and respect. She was determined to win her freedom, and return to the surface. She nodded slowly, her tiny hand lifting to brush from her cheeks the thicket of curls that had fallen there. She swallowed a great lump that had built in her throat, the muscles at her smooth neck constricting as she did. "Yes, thank you ..." Such awkward formalities! Christine dipped her head, closing her eyes momentarily.

So often they had spoken while apart, separated by glass, and now it seemed much too strange to be face to face. As if this was their first meeting. It was,thought, in a manner of speaking.If he had kept up the facade just a while longer then this wouldn't feel so…constricting. But every lie must come to an end. Ironic how he could kill someone without mercy, without thought or remorse, but seeing her saddened face among those scores of deceased was what affected him the most.

Drawing in a shuddered breath he closed his eyes and lifted his hand to knead along his shoulder, as if that would help get rid of the sensation that traveled along the curve and length of limb. The silence settled between them again, broken only by the gentle lapping of water against the bare shore of his lair. _Poor, unhappy, _weak_ Erik. To think, you were the Khanum's greatest assassin, and now you sit here, _weeping._ Pathetic. _Always his own worst and most vicious enemy. "I ... will ta-take you back soon. Undouted..ly the fools they..c-call managers.. will be..be wondering about your di-disappearance." Never had he thought that speaking could be so difficult, so painful. The gaze that seemed to constantly shift between amber and blazing gold rested upon her again, and he pressed forth the words, strained with aching, but still strong in their conviction. "Promise me... that you will return."

_Soon?_ _When was soon? A week, perhaps? A month? _Christine sighed despite herself, her gaze lifting to his own as she huddled there. She was aching already, eager to stand and shake away the tension that had built in her legs and braced arms. Would she ever see the surface again, Meg or Madame Giry, Raoul ... sweet and handsome and noble Raoul? She found that even the fattened, swarthy cheeks of Ubaldo Piangi would be a comforting sight from this place, and him, the keeper of its eternal darkness.

The candles had long since lost their vigor, shadows cast around her cheeks and brow as she shifted uneasily in her position. His next remark came, at first, as the preposterous notion of a man driven mad by his own solitude. He had lured her over the months with his voice, made her believe him to be of the highest ranking of the Seraphim, sang to her in sleep, spoke her name as if it were the last words he would ever utter in this world. More so, he used her very girlish naivety to sew a web of the most intimate lies to ensnare her very soul! And now he, poor and unhappy Erik, pleaded a promise from her that she would return?

Christine had half a mind to reprimand him coldly; bitter were her thoughts as she contemplated his words. Yet ... that Voice. So divine, so skilled. It alone had taken her 'rusty hinges' to the very same level with which It had resided. This same Voice had awakened in her the inspiration of sacred fire, the ardent and voracious, nay even sublime, life that she was destined to pursue. Its soul lived in her music, its harmony dwelled there. How could she ever forget that feeling, the warmth of the figurative embrace ... and finally, the chilling contrast of cold in the physical gesture?

Quiet for so long, he would have thought her mute she sat so complacent and still, lost in thought. These reminders of their brief past apparently held the still lingering power to sway her, for she spoke quite softly, her gaze fixed upon his as she gave her reply. "I ... I promise, Erik. My poor Erik."

He waited, with utmost patience he waited. Though inwardly he was nearly inching forward in an attempt to visually prod the answer from her. Weight adjusted, he rocked forward from his knelt position to press to a stand. Lethargic, the natural grace his body held was ruined only a bit as he stepped back in a half stagger as a bout of vertigo washed over his senses. Closing his eyes he bit back a groan and sucked in a sharp breath.

He wished to forget it all, to forget the betrayal of her fingers snatching away his dignity without so much as a thought. He had asked her to trust him, to know only one side, to close her eyes to the truth, though she denounced her silent disobedience with that one action. She didn't trust him, wouldn't... How could he trust her? "Tomorrow...then. I... will come for you. We shall practice. Prepare." Pausing a moment with a muted grimace he closed his eyes briefly, then let them rest upon her again. "Prepare for your next opera. You will again be singing the lead."

Slowly, but surely, he was regaining his strength, making that shadow of a man, more a man. Still there was that reminding ache that he wasn't at his best, not yet. Ever familiar, that tone of finality, as if he knew she'd have that role, no matter what. He wouldn't let Carlotta be upon the stage as a diva, not since his Christine has been beneath the limelight. Tilting his head slightly he then shook it. "I am being an improper host. Do you hunger or thirst, my dear?" Two simple words, yet that adoration was still there, lingering upon them heavily.

Just because he couldn't trust her, didn't mean that he couldn't lo-... no. That was _not _a notion he could conceive. What would he know of it? He never gained such a thing from anyone, not even his own blood. _Her_ love came in the form of ill repressed shudders at the sight of his face, or the swift smack of a hand when he refused to wear his mask. This feeling, this ... _thing_ had no name.

Now that she was to rehearse, at last face to face with her unseen tutor, Christine remembered his words from so long ago; he had warned her that those things that wished to remain unseen had good reason for remaining so. She should have listened, foolish child. As he spoke of the new production – _Il Muto_, she believed it was – the dwindling tension in her temples lessened considerably. His demeanor was shifting to a much more approachable, less threatening sort of stance.

Placing her palms beneath her as support, she lifted herself from the dampened stone floor of the cavern, eyeing him warily as she adjusted the lapels of her robe. In her frightful fit they had fallen open, the sash hanging loosely upon her rounded derrière. She took into her tiny hands the satin material, tugging it closed to conceal the cream fabric of her corset and chemise. She felt much too exposed, much too vulnerable beneath his inspection now. His words of assurance in regards to her role in the production, where once so complimentary and humbling, now only proved to chill her further.

What lengths would he go to ensure her the role_ this_ time?

Another dropped beam and heavy canvas on the Prima Donna? Frightening, to think that one ill spoken word could tempt fate, could place, not La Carlotta nor the managers, but _her _– 'his muse, his Christine' – in the direct path of his rage. She resolved inwardly to return to him at his beckoned call, if not to shield herself from his harm, but any others who might encounter his fearful wrath. Raoul came to her mind as she watched him. It was more than obvious that Erik was jealous of the young viscount; Christine might have been a trusting and oft naive girl, but she wasn't entirely insipid. Would he attempt to hurt her childhood friend? No, surely not. Not as long as she promised him her unquestionable service. She was neither hungry nor thirsty she found, but requested both anyway. "Yes, but only a little."

He had to be blind to miss the way she was watching him, as if she expected him to lunge at her and attack like some enraged, maddened animal. It had been fury that led him to her earlier, it was anger that wanted to squeeze her lying breath from her lungs... but now he seemed utterly calm. And not the quiet, 'calm brewing before the storm' calm that he had before. "You should eat more, child. Lest you turn sideways and I shan't see you." Jesting? Why yes, yes he was. Sarcasm had dripped like venom from his words previously, but now they were light and airy, musical in a mirthful tone.

Christine stared in idle wonderment at his sudden shift in demeanor. Once so cold and cruel, dangerous and stalking toward her with the look of a maddened animal behind his eyes – and now so ... polite, courteous, even _sweet. _Having recalled his threatening form towering over her but moments before, Christine gave an unwanted and entirely inappropriate shiver. Such anger ... such rage ... all pent up in the form of a man, bleeding through in the music she had heard somewhere in her sleep, wafting through her strengthened barriers to both frighten and entice her.

"Come. Sit." Lowering his left hand and doing well to mask the flicker of pain that wanted to come into his face, he motioned to a nearby couch for her to settle on instead of sitting upon the floor. That just wasn't the lady like thing to do. Turning away from her, he allowed the ache to settle upon his face. Then exhaling a slow, shuddering breath he made his way toward the kitchen with no small form of discomfort. At least in there she wouldn't be able to see his suffering. Though...what would he prepare for her? He didn't eat much. And when he did it was always light. Entering the darkness of the kitchen he leaned back against the wall next to the door's frame and brought his hand to his chest in a kneading stroke, as if that would assist in getting rid of the tightening sensation.

She moved to the couch he gestured to slowly, her eyes ever fixed upon him as he made for the kitchen. _Tomorrow ... he said he would come for me. How?_ Again through the mirror, to snatch her once more away from the world she knew so well, so longed for as she lowered herself to the cushions. And Raoul! As her senses returned to her, she remembered he had promised to return for her, to take her to supper the prior night. What of that? Christine sighed in hopelessness, leaning forward to rest her elbows upon her drawn knees. She buried her strained face in her palms. This lamentable mess had escalated much too far, from a passionate adoration for an unseen mentor to a humbled and still ... oh, Heaven curse her! ... strange and fearful attraction.

Staggering in a breath, he closed his eyes and rested his head back against the cool stone. Pressing away he searched about the elaborate kitchen for something that would be good to feed her. There wasn't much, but a soup could be prepared and quickly. He didn't want her to get the itch to start wandering, only to find herself lost within his labyrinth. He would die if she found one of his traps. The mere thought of finding her within that illusionary forest was enough to bring a wince to half masked features.

The more he moved the less the pain bothered him, especially now that he had something else to do. Still, his mind worried, even as deft fingers prepared the mixture of ingredients. Everything he did tended to have him within it, his soul. His music, art, construction, even in something as minute as this. The soft purring mew down at his feet gathered his attention, dragging him from his thoughts as he looked down at the spoiled Siamese. She arched herself lovingly against the side of his leg, dusting fine pale cream hairs against the much darker material. Lowering to a partial crouch he scratched beneath her chin then over her face. _Masked, like my own. _Except Ayesha had nothing to hide.

Moving over to the sink to wash off his hands he glanced over his shoulder to the doorway, unable to see her. Slightly he lifted his voice so she'd be able to hear him. "Within the organ's seat you will find the scores for _Il Muto _and _Faust_. They are yours. We shall practice on your role as the countess."

Should she have fled that damnable metronome, leaving it to tick away in the dark? Damn her curiosity! Her impetuous youth! Christine raged within herself, scorning her foolish nature, returning those months ago to investigate and thus puzzle together the great riddle of the Opera Ghost. Their first encounter ever, and see where it had led her.

She drew her chin up as he spoke, her gaze turning toward the kitchen doorway as she listened. Those glorious locks of chocolate, seemingly russet in the dim setting, shifted over her back and across her cheeks slightly before her palm lifted to smooth them behind her ears. Standing, she approached the organ and glanced about with a sigh. Work and more work, and though she was hardly familiar with _Il Muto, _she was however with _Faust. _The story was a tragic one; a man who sold his soul to the Devil himself, all for what? For a little bit of beauty in such a world as this, for Marguerite, the woman he dared to love. Appropriate.

She lifted the heavy oak seat carefully, retrieving from its hallowed width the bound scores of each opera he had specified. She turned toward the couch as she flipped through the _Il Muto _pages idly. No doubt Carlotta would return to the sing the role of the countess, despite her Angel's – _no, not an Angel ... a man, nothing more_ – promise to ensure her the title.

While the inside of the bench was neat with stacked scores, the desk was covered with scattered notes and parchments. It was a wonder he could tell the order of the pages. The end was off beneath the beginning, the middle wasn't even completed, and the beginning, with its fluid script of '_Don Juan Triumphant_' lay glaring in bleeding red over the yellowish pages. There were also some burned pages, those he had thrown within the fire, only to snatch out moments later, risking the burn that went with the salvaging.


	34. Chapter 34

Filling up Ayesha's bowl with water, he set it down and gave another scratch to her chin before he continued with the meal, washing his hands before then, of course. Adjusting the belt of his robe he closed it again, fastening it securely so it wouldn't come loose so easily. It was silk, it would work loose eventually. With a bowl prepared and placed upon a plate, he sliced some bread and cheese to tuck between the two dishes. With a glass of water prepared, he drew in a slow breath, ignoring the piercing pain in his side as he did so before he turned and started for the doorway, only to pause within it to watch her quietly.

With both _Il Muto _and _Faust_ in hand, she found little need in the latter since he had mentioned they would rehearse her role as the countess. Turning, she made premature her trek to the couch, instead turning to return the unnecessary score to the organ's bench. All the while, she remained oblivious of his quiet gaze. Quite ironic, too. Had not that same penetrating gaze captured her before, even while it remained an invisible companion in the security of her dressing room? Why was it now that she barely noticed him stirring there in the doorway, even as she leaned over his blood red work and absorbed in silent fixation the title scrawled upon the parchment?

For some reason Hayden's _Orfeo ed Euridice_ came to mind as he continued to observe her. While he hadn't lost his only love forever, he still felt akin to Orpheus. One who dared all to win the woman's affection, but in foolish ways. When he noticed her looking over the score, he started to move forward to cover it from her prying eyes, but he let her continue to scan across the pages.

_Don Juan Triumphant. _She cautiously reached forth to brush her fingertips over the illegible scratch as if the pages themselves were hot coals, or rather an exhibit in a museum one should never touch. But for mere fascination, she did touch it anyway. It was from the corner of her eyes that she noticed him standing there, watching her as intently as she had scanned over the title of his composition. Her gaze ventured from his masked visage, to the tray of food he held in hand, to again his face. Genuinely inquisitive, she gestured toward the score. "Did you compose this?"

Adjusting his hold upon the plate he moved away from the doorway and over to the organ. Slowly, so as not to startle her. He didn't want her to scurry away from him again. "Yes. Though it...is not finished. It is not perfect." Never would it be, not for a long, long time. He lowered his eyes to the splay of parchments filled with musical notes, and hasty scrawling. When something came to mind he didn't wait until later to jot it down. If he didn't right then and there, then it would be lost forever. "Would... you like for me to play a part of it? While you eat?" Raising his eyes he gestured to the couch he had motioned to before and handed her the bowl topped plate.

She watched him as he approached, her fingertips lifting from the parchment as if to not offend him. Besides, she had meddled too much in his secrets already, had she not? In her pity and respect for this deformed genius, Christine moved from the organ entirely ... and substantially closer to him. Whereas once this proximity would have excited her, she could only draw in a faint breath and offer a weakened nod to oblige.

"Only if you do not mind." The way the remark was left, it was almost as if she had started to call him 'monsieur', but refrained to conceal her discomfort. Taking the plate from him, she stood awkwardly before him a moment, unsure of what to do or exactly what to say. It passed, as all uncomfortable silences normally do, and she brushed past him to again take her seat on the couch. Hastily, no less. Perhaps she was hungrier than she had let on.

Shaking his head gently he released the plate to her carefully, then lowered his hand to his side. He had meant to say something, anything during that long period of silence, but he couldn't bring himself to speak. Straightening his shoulders and his back as she passed he looked upon the empty space briefly, then canted his chin toward his shoulder to glance back to her.

Moving around to the side of the organ, he adjusted the seat and stepped before it. Tucking the robe slightly so it wouldn't uncomfortably tighten against his bony shoulders, he collected a portion of the score and glanced over it. What would be safe? Surely not the section he had been working upon while she was behind him, plotting. He couldn't suffer them both through that music. Perhaps the aria, her aria. What was her name? Didn't he write it down? He checked over the pages and frowned subtly. It might come back to him; later.

Choosing what he wanted to play he nodded to himself then turned to the organ. Curling his fingers to loosen them, he brought a breath into the depths of his lungs then lowered his hands to the keys, brushing his fingers across them lovingly. It was a slow song, one filled with longing and love, akin to the feeling in the aria in _Hannibal_, though more felt. More passionate, innocently so. Nothing like what he had poured from his soul prior to her betrayal.

Christine sat slowly on the cushions, placing the plate in her lap carefully as she did. The meal was a fine one, one she could hold down, anyway. She was a light eater, even Mama Valerius said so. She was always encouraging her to eat another piece of this or that, only to find that the years of training in the _corps de ballet _had placed Christine under a strict regimen of exercise all its own. She was a frail little thing.

Taking a slice of bread in hand, a healthy bite was taken from it as she stirred with her spoon the contents of the soup. Then there was music ... oh, divine and heavenly music! She lifted her eyes to his back, though now made no move toward him as she had before, little conniving Pandora that she once portrayed. Instead, she sat enraptured by the passion behind each note. Would, _could _she ever feel with the veracity that he had, lonely as he was?

While his mind wanted one thing, fingers wanted another. One song transformed, the aria to the duet, the very one he didn't want to play with her in the room. It wasn't that he couldn't resist, the music just wouldn't let him. He simply had no choice but to succumb. Staccato and drawn were those first chords, pressing closer to the almost timid languid tones only to change again, as if unsure. But at the same time, knowing, wanting and demanding. The further the song went, the more he became enthralled by the notes that were changing from the ones he had written earlier.

A subtle sway of form with each measure, and a flicker of words came to mind, but he didn't stop to write them down, not yet. They would only be changed anyway. It was only the tenor's section he played before his fingers slowed, then stilled, resting placidly against the keys. The music disappeared into silence, and silent is how he remained before an exhale. "It still needs work... Plenty of it. I... cannot seem to get it right." An apology hidden within the words for abruptly stopping? Or maybe for playing it to begin with?

A deep exhale escaped the young ingenue as well, her muscles relaxing as if she hadn't moved during the brief interlude, nor dared to breathe. How could she resist, despite that nightmarish face? His voice was the passage to his soul, and all she needed to do was simply surrender. Darkness would inevitably carry her there to its gilded threshold. She bore down slowly on a spoonful of soup. It was actually rather good, and it was neither too hot nor to cold but the temperature at which she could savor it best.

After this long moment of silence, during which she downed a portion of her water, she spoke softly. "How long have you worked on it?" This was painfully awkward. Had he not played it, what would there have been to talk of? Would he have sat there and watched her eat, while he himself literally wasted away under the stress of ill health and humors? And since he had played, as was the case, would they both suffer alone the unspoken emotions those notes inspired in them? Melodies without words could be just as powerful as the ones accompanied by a voice, truth be told. Would there ever be a moment's rest between the two of them? Now that she had exposed such a frightening and heartbreaking secret?

He hadn't turned around just yet, only watched his fingers as they grazed over one key or another, idle picking turning into an actual song, something familiar, absently played. There was no passion behind it. More like a music box in its thoughtless notes. His chuckle slipped through his throat and even that simple sound was melodic. "Twenty, thirty years? I've lost count. I have tossed away countless uncompleted versions. It is proving most difficult and stubborn, if I may say so myself."

Suddenly having a feline upon his lap, he glanced down to Ayesha and lowered one hand to stroke his palm along her head and down her back, a loving caress, one contact he savored. It was the only contact he had had with a living, breathing thing in years.. at least one that didn't scream once they saw his face. For a moment an image of that whore came to his mind and he closed his eyes.

Christine was pleasantly surprised by that breathy air of laughter. Strange, but nevertheless ... beautiful? Countless times she had heard a smile in his hypnotic voice, remnants of sadness here and there, and even caged longing, a notion that frightened and excited her. A typical child Christine was, blossoming, and hesitantly so, for with the grace of her age came also the newest and most secret depths of herself to explore. And orphaned, yes, with but the influence of the chorus mums and the elder members of the _corps de ballet_ – who downed pints of aged wine before stepping on stage – to guide her.

"And what will you do with it once it is completed?" She showed genuine interest, her brows lifting heavenward as her gaze traveled toward his back. The fabric of his silken robe, draped over the organ bench, gave him the strange likeness of an ebony winged angel, and as she realized that a part of her still clung to the silly notion of his being the Angel of Music ... as that deepened yearning for her father led her to believe that this strange deformity before her was really a vessel from Heaven disguised. She dropped her gaze to the surface of her soup, again taking a bite.

Cracking his eyes open slightly as the feline nudged her head against his hand, a faint smile passed over his lips. That lighter tone changed, drifting toward something a lot heavier, solemn. "When it is finished, I shall lay down with it, and never wake." A bit of a pause and he reversed within the conversation. "Twenty years... that is how long I have been working upon it. Twenty years it has plagued me. Like some vague thing that is just out of my reach, something I desperately cling to, yet... it slips."

Like so many things in his life. Just when he believed he had happiness, something would come along to destroy it. The carpenter's daughter, his time in the desert, in Russia, Japan... here. "What I have played for you... is all I will do until it is completed. Then perhaps..." Raising his head he tipped his chin toward his shoulder, the flawless side of his face brought into her view. "Then perhaps I will play it all."

Never wake? _Death, Christine, death ... just as your father, just as your mother ... _A recurring theme in her short life span, the girl glanced up from her spoon, suspended in mid-flight to the cavern of her mouth. It was lowered in the same beat and her brow knit furiously in silent comprehension of his remark. She responded quietly, awkwardly, "You should work on it as seldom as possible."

She did not want him to die, as loathsome a 'gargoyle' as he said he was? No, never! For the still quite skittish girl that she was, the tenderness in her heart ... the endearing compassion she held for him ... no, she simply could not bear the thought of such a death for this unmatched genius.

Conflicted, she too would be left to ponder on just exactly what those words meant…her own words, and still she knew not why she had uttered them. A thrall, a heavy spell? She did not believe so, but concluded that in spite of their differences in both physical and mental demeanor, something within the both of them stirred, and as he said, longed for that unseen ... _something, _making the light and darkness, the beast and the beauty, one and the same. She was the mask, he the voice behind it. "If ... if you played it all, I would like that."

Turning his head back around to look upon the spoiled princess of his lair, he lifted her from his lap and brushed his cheek against her side before lowering her to the ground. She sauntered by Christine, sniffing in her direction with the laying back of her ears. The cat wasn't used to others being around this domain, her domain as she saw it. Diamond collar glinted sharply in the lingering candle light as she trotted away, slipping into the bedroom through the crack of his door. He pressed his lips together thinly, knowing there was going to be cat fur on the comfortable velvet of his bed. If that is what one wished to call it.

That was something one would hardly expect to see in the depths of a darkened labyrinth…a cat. A well groomed and clearly pampered cat, too! The diamond collar assuredly proved her status in this underground lair, his one companion that sported proudly the result of his affection. A smile, the first drawn from her pale lips, spread slowly over her otherwise solemn expression. The same instant, she sat her plate and partially emptied bowl to the side, sipping her water in an attempt to clear her mind of unwanted thoughts.

When would she return to the surface? Would Raoul be angry with her? Furthermore, would Erik seek to again abduct her, steal her away into the world he held legion over? The shadows, his courtiers, the watery mist upon his vast, glassy lake a harem of other worldly sirens meant to lure any prying souls to their deaths. And if not, could she bear the separation from the soul that had so preyed upon her own, pursued in music and mind the heart she so heavily guarded behind years of sadness and abandonment? "What is it about?" She asked, in an attempt to lighten her spirits.

Glancing to the parchments that rested nearby he reached over, gathering up the closest portion, the middle and end. She didn't want him to finish it? She _wanted_ him to live? Would he? For her, yes... he would. Though most of it was in his head, constantly changing, another version was ruined with the sounds of ripping pages. Halved, then halved again, he dropped the brunt of the score to the floor at his side. "That should buy more time, no?"

Looking upon the ruined parchments, he weighed his options silently. Tell her what the opera was about, or simply let it pass? Speak of something different? How could he explain when he felt that what he had written about was beginning to hit close to home, at least in some ways. He wasn't one to roam from woman to woman, surely if that was the case he wouldn't find interest in her, or would he? He hadn't been enthralled because of her innocence, though, in a way, that was part of it. She was so ignorant of the world, so naive, and so clean of the venomous, cynical thoughts that people tended to have. That kind of innocence drew him, his opposite in so many ways. As callous and cold as he might have been as the entertaining magician and assassin, still, to this day, he could feel blood upon his hands.

"It... is hard to explain. It changes each time I write, which is why it has taken me so long to complete it. I work furiously for days, weeks on end, only to lay it aside for years. It consumes." The music, it was that strong. Consuming and destroying, a release of everything he had ever felt, a tap on his soul. And once it was empty, he had planned to lie down and succumb to blissful, eternal sleep. Only part of the chill that coursed over his skin was slaked, expressing itself with the faintest of shudders as he recalled the realism of those caresses. But they were real, weren't they? Real, until she broke that spell.

Settling his hands against the wooden ledge of the organ he pressed to a stand and moved away with a slide of silk from the bench, silk that came to a skimming caress along the backs of his heels as he drew closer to where she was sitting. But he stayed a good score of feet away, different, restrained... pained? It would be hard to tell what caused his voice to tighten subtly. Mercurial, his temperament changed so quickly, like the flip of a switch. "Your room was to your liking, my dear?"

As she absorbed his words, the remembrance of the events of the night prior conquered her thoughts. She recalled the icy fire in his touch and despite the layer of fabrics that had separated skin, she could still account their tender, sensual caresses, hesitant and controlling. She was the instrument that he tuned so finely beneath his fingertips. The brush of his warm breath still lingered in her senses, and as he approached she could have sworn that the same hot air had returned to brush along the shell of her ear, seducing her from her retained control. Her mind felt ... not quite her own under the heavy weight of his eyes – eyes she could _see _now, _succumb t_o.

She lowered her eyes to her lap, watching her fingers entwine within themselves. She nodded slightly, avoiding his all powerful eyes, desperately attempting to shut off the touch of his voice on her heart. "Yes ... th-thank you." Good heavens, she was trembling. Lifting to her feet quickly she let her arms hang loosely at her sides. A cloud of almond curls clouded her vision as she studied her feet, the stone beneath, the cracks and droplets of moisture ... any mundane thing to escape that undeniable presence.

She couldn't trust him. She couldn't simply turn a blind eye and believe. He could have given her so much, things beyond her imagination and dreams. Even the impossible would have been attempted. Would he still? He was unsure. He had told her that her fear of him could turn to love, but did he love her? What would he know of _love_? It could be some simple infatuation. He could become bored of her once she was finished with her training, but learning never had an end. The day a person stopped learning, was the day they died.

A little less than an hour ago he had been trembling, whimpering like some fatally wounded animal, weeping in his pain, though now...now there was that quiet majesty, and when he moved, the undeniable predatory grace moved him closer to her. Feet made no sound, yet it was as if he retained a languid rhythm that only he and his soul could hear. Her trembling had to be from fear, did it not? It couldn't be anything else, but fear. His eyes trailed over her slowly, taking in the quivering of her form as he paused but a few feet in front of her, and raising a hand he brought it along the outside of her hair, caressing over the halo of strands, yet never actually touching the curls, then beneath her chin his fingers ceased. Warmth urged it up, though it was only a warmth she could feel. His actual touch was as cold as ice.

"You needn't fear me, child. As long as you do not touch the mask, you are safe."


	35. Chapter 35

_"You needn't fear me, child. As long as you do not touch the mask, you are safe."_

If he only knew of her 'fear'. If only the boundaries of her ever proper maidenhood could have been bypassed in some way as to express just _what_ stirred such violent trembles. Inches away, and with that palm tracing its line over her profile, every inch of her stood at attention, a chill running the length of her spine and crawling upward once more as it fanned from icy awareness to heated exuberance. A need for him to be closer, and still her mind struggled.

Her jaw slackened as if she was to speak, though all was silent in those moments spent trying to muster her strength. Or to abandon her defenses? The muscles in her slender neck constricted as she swallowed a great lump that had built there, her chin lifting upon his whim to draw her eyes directly into his. Her heavy sigh penetrated the air around them, and in her eyes dwelled not fear nor betrayal, but once more the glaze of willing ... numbness. His voice, despite its sudden change from soothing to coldly cruel and calculated, left her dazed and vulnerable, her eyes wide.

She might resist, yet her soul obeyed. It wasn't his intention to manipulate her mind but there was just that... presence. Sometimes the dear Daroga wondered if the man that stood before her had a split personality. Erik could be so calm one moment, then a raging lunatic the next. Though he wanted to touch her skin, he didn't let his hand lift any further than it was already. In fact, he pulled it down slightly just in case she tipped her chin down.

He was closer now, that step had been lost between them, lost to his own senses. Moth to flame. _Isn't it supposed to be the other way around, _he wonderedHis eyes lifted from her own to trail over the rest of her face, the flush of her cheeks, the contours of them. _So soft_, he remembered, even if the touch was with his gloves on. "I would never hurt you, Christine, as long as you do not hurt me."

She felt almost pained by the straying of his hand to linger at his side, her desire nothing more than to bask in that pleasurable oblivion she had touched upon the night previous. Night. _Time_. Was there such a thing as time in this kingdom, or was it by his wish alone that it became time to rest or time to eat or time to rehearse? _Time is tedious. _The warmth of the candles touched over her smooth skin, their shadows flickering upon their neared forms as she breathed her simplistic and heart wrenching response into the inches between them.

"I am sorry." Could an apology suffice for her betrayal? If only she had known of his monstrosity, the deformity he so wished to conceal from the world, making her happier with the deception of his partially flawless countenance than with the truth he encouraged her to exile from her mind. Her surroundings blurred; she felt faint, detached, made unaware by the half whisper of his voice. Her hand drew upward from her side to reach for his cheek. Not the masked one, but the smooth complexion of his unmarred profile.

_There is no apology great enough for what you _have _done, came to his mind immediately, _that cynical nature of his rearing its ugly head and he curled his fingers loosely at his sides. Deceptively delicate, they brushed along the length of silk to be placed into his pockets, pale skin disappearing among the swirl of black and dark, royal blue. Other colors mingled, namely burgundy, but they were so minor, and her eyes were hardly trained upon the expensive cloth. He watched the path of her hand carefully, suspiciously, and when she touched his skin he nearly brought his eyes to half lid, though that mocking tone returned to his thoughts. Taunting within him with a hiss: _Oh look. The little Delilah prepares the scissors just before snipping you Samson._ Following the length of her arm with the slow slide of his gaze, he met her face again, her eyes. There he rested his attention, not pulling back yet, testing to see what she would do.

He dwelled…it was his greatest flaw, and greatest strength; remembering all that had happened to him kept him alive. Yet at the same time, even now, it destroyed him. Beneath the drape of silk and satin, he had tensed for so many varied reasons. Preparing himself for another unmasking, tapping down the irritation he had from when she had done so, too many things.

This little 'Marguerite' gazed upward toward her 'Faust' for a moment , with a look of something akin to a daughter's affection. As unsettling as it might seem, she viewed this man, _her Erik_, as the guardian she had so needed in her life. Who else had provided for her the valuable ego strengths needed to face the crowd on the night of her grand debut? She reasoned in vain, for with his power came nothing but the numbness and compliance of mind, that he was, assuredly, the long desired antidote to the plague of loneliness she so suffered.

Her lips spread into an ethereal smile, like an invalid who found hope in her delirium that the that illness plagued her health would not claim her life. And then, just like that, it was gone. Something, perhaps a measly sliver of thought, had broken the fixation. She sighed gloomily, as disheartened by her present state as ever before. Her palm fell from the contact, heavily returned to her side were it fidgeted with her satin sash, as common as if it had never savored the feel of his cool flesh against her own just seconds prior.

Shoulders straightened slightly as she drew her hand away, and pulling in a slow breath he kneaded his jaw subtly in thought before turning abruptly and stepping away from her.. As he moved from her, her eyes followed each sleek and graceful step he took. He neared the organ, and half hopeful she moved to join him. He had mentioned before that they would rehearse her role as the countess in _Il_ _Muto_, and having forgotten it on the proposal of dinner, it was once more remembered when she noticed the parchment lying on the soft cushions of the couch, just as she'd left it, opened to page one.

Gathering the parchments he had torn apart, he stepped to the fireplace next. It didn't take long for him to start the fire. Waiting until the debris within was properly burning, he tossed the score inside, adding another death to his invisible tally. "There is more soup if you wish." Folding his arms loosely over his stomach he watched the flames as they hungrily ate through the paper, leaving nothing but cinders and ash. Tipping his chin down slightly he closed his eyes to half lid, listening to not only the crackling of the fire, but to her behind him.

Christine could not help but to express her bewilderment in a gasp. It was unfinished, yes! Not hopeless! She quickly moved to his side, tempted to drop to her knees and try and salvage the parchment not yet licked by the finality of the fire. Such genius, such a divine power – burned! "Why did you do that? It's not yet finished. You said it yourself. Is that reason to burn it?" She turned her eyes to study his profile, brows lifted heavenward in expectancy as she moved back a step or two from the sudden heat of the fire.

Her sudden movement toward the fire nearly caused him to dart out a hand to grab her, but he didn't believe she would allow herself to become terribly burned. Yet still, there was the undeniable concern in his eyes and tension along his frame until she had backed away. He turned, stepping closer to her to draw the semi-smoking papers from her grasp. Carelessly, they were tossed back into the fire and he tipped his head to the side with a bit of confusion within eccentric colored eyes.

"I will start anew. Give more time for it to be worked upon. Is that not what you wished, Christine? So I would not lay down too soon with the manuscript?" Glancing over toward the fire he stoically watched the last of the score burn and gave a gentle exhale. Though it didn't seem like it bothered him, it actually had. The work was genius, but he was sure that he could make it better, more powerful. "More time..." he said gently. To himself? Her?

In the moment her gaze had met his, Christine was able to judge full well how he had regarded her during their time together. Firelight had an undeniable way of warming the spirit, and even exposing the inner shadows of a human being. Gratefully so, in his case. The languid way his eyes followed her movements expressed a repressed, almost savage, desire that lay unspoken for her and perhaps for the hopes he had for his song to lift into the Heavens through the vessel of her voice. And since he had not made any motion to take her in a way she would have had to resist, even in her blinded delirium, she reasoned that surely something of an Angel must dwell in him.

By firelight, his masked eye was veiled, a tiny abyss that stared from its chiseled socket. She stood, soot covering the otherwise crisp white color of her robe. She moved not to dust it away but turned to square her shoulders toward him, her tiny hands clasped upon her abdomen. "When can I return to the Opera?"

Giving a slow blink, as if dragging himself out of the depths of thought, he gave a soft shake of his head then turned it to look back to her. His questions left unanswered – not that he truly expected her to answer them anyway – he gave a subtle nod, then glanced to the door that he had taken her through. "You wish to leave now?" While he wanted her to remain, he wasn't going to keep her here against her will. She was not a prisoner, though now she'd never escape him. The disappointment was masked as easily as his face. Unfolding his arms from his stomach he brought his hands behind him, cupping one within the other as he turned his gaze back to her. "I will take you back, should that be your desire. There is little I could deny you, Christine."

Did she really desire the surface? What could she hope to find there but the brunt of Carlotta's jealousy, even though she returned to the chorus line – the background. But Raoul came to mind. Though the previous night was the first in years she had seen her little friend, an undeniable pull placed him in the highest regards of her mind. A regard she would speak of to no one, especially Erik. It was he who had attempted to drop the beam on La Carlotta, was it not? Who knew to what lengths he would not hesitate to go if angered or made jealous by the dashing young Vicomte? Oh, but how she missed him! The safety in his arms ... as if those two limbs provided a shield from everything she so feared. Such idle fears, too: the darkness, Death ... ironically, all the things her Erik personified, and all of the traits she had come to find herself strangely drawn to.

She did not meet his eyes, but absorbed his remarks in silence until the splendid sadness of his voice ended. The silenced thickened and lowered, and she had to speak ... if not a response, than some sort of comfort. "I promised I would return." _Just as you promised your Angel of Music_ _you would not let Monsieur de Chagny interfere, Christine Daae?_

He thought on his own words, the meaning within them, behind them. Yes, there was little he could deny her, if only she would remain true to her music. Music or love, she couldn't have both, or could she? With him, yes. But what of the boy? He knew nothing of the arts, undoubtedly. He was no more than a young annoyance who happened to gain his money through the death of his parents, most likely. While he knew the Vicomte had been in the navy, he doubted the boy had actually seen war.

"Yes... you did promise me," he stated gently, trailing off. If he wanted to win her trust, her…love, he'd have to keep from lashing her with words. He wasn't going to remind her of her betrayals, only silently stow them away to be stewed upon later, while he wrote. It was within those impassioned emotions that he formed his best creations. "I will clear away first.. Then return you." Hesitating a moment, he studied her quietly before turning away. There were dishes to be picked up and cleaned, as well as the rest of the soup to throw away. He wasn't going to eat. Hunger rarely bothered him.

She was instantly sorry for having asked, taking pity upon him as she caught him hesitating, if only for a moment, before moving toward the kitchen. His words were distant, lonely and if he cried behind that mask, she would not have known it. She stepped forward on a whim, her fingers touching his arm gently. "Perhaps I could assist you? You've been a gracious host, it is the least I can do."

Christine was accustomed to cleaning; her boarding house was constantly turned upside down between new and old tenants arguing over the responsibilities of aiding Mama Valerius in preparations for the supper they all shared, as a household. It was a nurturing environment for the blossoming young woman to grow up in, one her father would have insisted she be thankful for. And she was. Having been taught proper manners, it was only natural she had some desire to show her gratitude for his shelter, and for the meal he had prepared.

But for his lessons, his affection, his _love_? Could even the greatest of gifts, if such a gift existed, suffice? Hardly. She could but sing for him upon the stage. And still she had betrayed him, as she had with the removal of his mask. Those thoughts filled her mind now.

"I have been an abhorrent host. Though, I will not say no to your offer." Pausing he glanced over his shoulder toward her then turned as he picked up the bowl topped plate. Adjusting the remaining portions of bread and cheese so they wouldn't fall from the plate, he picked up the goblet as well, then made his way to the kitchen.

For an underground lair, he had his home set up as if it was a mansion above the surface. She had yet to see the library, or his music room where his piano was found. There didn't look to be any other doors. Tapestries covered them up; one reason why he told her to not let her eyes deceive her.

Without checking to see if she was following him into the kitchen, he approached the sink and placed the dishes aside. Loosening the belt of his robe, he adjusted the lay of it, then wrapped it around his skeletal frame again. Belting it closed, he turned on the water then rolled up the sleeves, once again delving into thought.

_Well, apart from the scare from earlier ..._ Spurred on entirely by herself, no less. She shook away a tremble that threatened to deceive her outward placid demeanor, and as he gathered the plate and cup, she followed closely behind.

She was amazed by the normality of this underground home, the estate walls, of course, aged and clammy stone, but otherwise made comfortable by draping tapestries and furniture, candles that burned low in massive candelabra, and Persian carpets upon the stone floors. The kitchen in itself was a feat she'd never before seen, she a simple girl who had navigation of the boarding house's crowded kitchen down to a skill.

She joined him at the sink, several inches between them as she pushed up the sleeves of her robe and took the plate into her hands. The water was alarmingly cold on her hands but she adjusted after a moment, a washcloth taken from the counter top nearby to be moistened beneath the spray of the faucet.

When she came over to the sink and took over the washing, he canted his head slightly then finished rolling back the silk only to stand there placidly for a moment, watching her hands as she did such a simple task as wetting down the washcloth. Awkward silence passed for several moments; she, unsure of what to say and feeling much more like an unwelcome spirit that lingered too long than anything else, and he leery about breaking such tentative solace.

With the excess food taken off already and set aside to give to Ayesha or snack upon later, he shifted his attention from her hands to her hair that intruded into the space over her shoulder with the liquid fall of soft curls. He hadn't meant to touch her, but before he knew it, his fingers were drawing back the strands, pulling the thickness of them behind her only to be bound within a quickly weaved braid; tight, but not painful.

She did not flinch against his touch, but rather slowed her increasingly busy motions on the washcloth and plate. And could the first hint of a smile be seen as he braided her long mane back from her countenance? One could assume so, the corners of her rosy mouth, which had at last regained their color, lifting heavenward to crease a charming dimple into her left cheek.

Though he had touched her hair, he didn't stray his hands to her skin at any point or time. He didn't notice how small she was until then. Standing behind her he had to tip his chin down to be able to look upon her head. Small as she was, she was certainly limber. Strong, too. Years of dance and oft excruciating training had formed her shape into a feminine and willowy sprite, her limbs lithe and her bust of ample size. The flattering consequence of her attire now was that her corset was closely fitted, framing each soft curve as to not over exaggerate her endowments – a trick La Carlotta enjoyed.

Her robe flowed from her shoulders onward to the floor, puddling at her ankles, giving her the rather deceptive but not entirely untrue appearance of an angel, a beacon in the dark. Christine was hardly a great beauty, but her eyes, even as they cast slightly over her shoulder as he spoke his thanks, captured all she met. Doe colored and brimming, they were constantly watching .. drifting between reality and dream.

The _LEpogue _critic who had seen first hand the great success of young Mademoiselle Daae, had commented on her 'undeniable charm', ' her genuine portrayal of Elissa as compared to La Carlotta's dreadfully material performance in the role' and of her whole hearted compassion, 'as if by the look in those great and mysterious eyes, one could assume that she had fallen in love for the first time'.

He could only imagine how she felt with him looming behind her... so close. Like before. There was no conscience willingness then. She had been lured by his voice, by his words. Would she have been so inclined to press back against him as she had if she wasn't under the thrall? Too many things plagued his mind, bringing doubt. Always doubt.

"Thank you," he whispered gently, then moved away from her so he could collect the items he had used to prepare the soup.

Her brow knit as she turned partially to examine him. "Thank you? I do not understand…"

Covering up the loaf of bread so it would last another day or two, he slid it to the side of the counter, near a bowl of fruit. Glancing over the rinds to ensure that they were still fresh he nodded to himself then turned his head to look back toward her. Her eyes met with his own.

He remained quiet, almost as if contemplating the answer he wished to give to her. In truth, it was so easy to get lost within the gentle hazel gaze. Something that made him feel silly for a moment. Looking away from her, he collected the crock pot and lifted the ladle with a slight stir, mixing the thickening liquid within, now tepid and most likely unsavory. Carrying it over to the sink he placed it to the side and gave a soft shake of his head.

"For assisting me," he lied easily, nodding toward the dishes. Seemed such a homely thing to do, as if all this was... natural. For a few seconds he let the thought of something so simple as this settle before dashing away the impossible dream.


	36. Chapter 36

She too had allowed her mind to venture into the simplicity of the moment, a normal routine that they would every so often find themselves in. _Together. _She quickly shook the thought away. But why? Had she not professed countless times her adoration toward him, her unfaltering dedication and servitude? Perhaps it was that she had so easily mistaken, in her innocence, the notion of love for infatuation, an unhealthy obsession he only aided in furthering its hold upon her.

She nodded slowly with his remark, turning again to rinse the plate under the flow of cold water. Then, reaching for a dry washcloth, she wiped down the dish and after a moment of idle displacement, simply passed it off to him. It was his home, he'd know where to store it.

"Again, it is the least I can do to make up for …" Christine caught herself, cutting the sentence short. She dared not to mention her damnable display of curiosity, and lifting her gaze from the spoon she now scrubbed with the moist cloth, it was apparent in her eyes the same sympathy she had retained before.

"No, that's not right. I ... I can not be excused for what I did, and simply apologizing can surely not suffice." _But he frightened you! Remember those words, that horrible face! _No, selfless Christine bit her tongue and said no more, listening intently to the gentle lapping of the water against the lead sink, as if those soothing melodies would derive in her some wisdom to present in place of her dumbfounded and embarrassed silence.

Collecting the plate from her hand, he reached up, pressing open the cabinet nearby to set the plate with the others. Adjusting one of the glasses so it wouldn't be knocked down, he lowered his hand, absently smoothing down the satin lapel and fixing it so it would lie properly. He turned his head to glance over to her again with a gentle shaking of his head. "Shhh, it is fine, my dear. Do not worry yourself over it."

He wasn't going to think of it now, not when everything was peaceful, even within his mind. No cynical voice lurking about, mocking him. Moving away from the sink again he collected the knife and whisk, then carried them back to the sink. Sliding them into the lead basin he stepped away from her so she'd have enough room to clean them. Since she was doing so, he rolled down the sleeves of the loose robe.

There was something soothing in this moment; perhaps it was the task of something as simple as washing the dishes that put her at ease, or the calm in his voice. Either way, she looked back on her decision to leave him with sudden self-contempt. He seemed so lonely here, and who could blame him? The feline could only serve as adequate company for so long, and it was commonly known that humans, for all of their misgivings and sins ... even in deformity, in desolate pain …needed other humans. Without compassion for others, what was life but a process of birth, a brief collection of knowledge, and then death?

She had already cleaned and laid out on the counter top the bowl and spoon. She handled the knife carefully, running the cloth the length of the blade twice before she rinsed it off and set it atop the dry linen. In her work, she leaned over the bin with fixed care in her mundane little chore. A slender curl fell over her cheek, and she could not have been more radiant and lovely than she was now, a dutiful child that took extra care to polish every prong of the whisk carefully.

Gathering each dish as she dried them off he placed the bowl within the cabinet near the plates, and the spoon in the drawer. Having a block for the knives, this one was carefully lifted from the side and slid into the waiting wood. Straightening out one knife, he ensured all fit properly before he turned to her.

There was little light within the kitchen, just a few of the candles he had lit on the center table near the stove and by the sink. It seemed like no matter where he stood he somehow found his form within the shadow, or maybe he had some preternatural way to manipulate them just as he could one's soul. The white of the mask seemed almost glaring within the darkness, and the v'd bit of skin along the front of the robe. Not as pale, perhaps, but close enough. Living in shadows all of his life had its price, not allowing his skin to get the vitamins it needed from the sun's rays.

Loosely crossing his arms over his stomach he glanced from the utensil she was cleaning to her face, where his eyes remained. There was no need to say anything. Silence tended to speak more than words, and there was plenty to be 'said' at that moment. Just as he had wished to smooth her hair back, while watching from behind the mirror, he desired to do so now, but didn't make any movement though she was but a few feet away from him.

She drained the sink then, drying it with the wash cloth in an attempt to leave it as it had been found. She folded each piece of linen, draping them upon the edge of the lead basin before she turned and faced him. Ever in shadow did he linger. Time to say goodbye, she reasoned. He had promised to return her to the surface, had he not? She was torn between her eagerness and her despair of leaving him, but remembered her promise and resolved to abide by it, at one, if not the_ other_.

She moved into a sliver of light cast by the candles upon the table top, her hands folded over her abdomen as she studied him, wordlessly. It was not an uncomfortable silence that resounded throughout his lair, but one that spoke words in and of itself. Such beauty ... it was easy for her to forget that what lingered between her prying eyes and that horrible deformity was but a mask, tangible to touch, and his Achilles heel of sorts.

He wanted to keep lingering, just standing there in silence with his eyes upon her, but he knew that she wanted to go back to the surface and the cursed light. Back to her friends and ..Raoul. Ironic that the light haired and light eyed man would be his opposite, in appearance and demeanor. He had a feeling she would return to him, regardless of the promise that she had given him. Though would she do so within these very walls, the walls of the opera house? Where he would see and hear everything? He had little power outside of them; too leery about being seen. The boy would charm her, and he would lose her.

Though his features hadn't changed, expressive eyes gave away the depth of thought as they stayed focused upon her, but not quite. It was as if he was looking _through_ her more than at her. Dampening his throat with a slow swallow, he glanced away from her to the door, then slid his eyes back. A brief pause and he gently nodded. "Are you ready, my dear? It looks as if you need the rest, and I daren't dally further."

Christine was shaken from her reverie by his words, her thoughts having run away with her as they stood in silence. Thoughts of Raoul or of Erik? One could only wonder at the possibilities.

She nodded her compliance, her form shifting toward the door to escape out into the grand expanse of the center cavern. The candles seemed tired in their vigorous burn, or perhaps it was the blur of much needed rest that deceived her eyes, turned them against her. She was ready for the world of light, even if only for a little while before she could return to him, her Divine tutor.

She longed for Meg's spirited company, little Cecile Jammes' humorous impression of La Carlotta, Mama Valerius' manner of waking her every morning, even Madame Giry! And ... Raoul. How she needed his warmth right now! Why could she not shake him from her mind even now in the presence of such power, so evident from her hypnotized state the night before?

She was quick to move, he noted. Too quick. Or that just could have been his imagination. Part of him _wanted _to see that she was in a rush to go back to the surface. Anything to destroy _this_, to be no more than her tutor. But it was already too late. She had started to melt the ice that had built up for so long, ice that no one else even came close to cracking save for the little fur ball princess out in the main room.

When she had exited and traveled out of his range of sight, he turned his gaze down toward the floor, thoughtfully. He had to kill this foreign thing before it killed him. Dragging in a slow, and deep, breath he pressed away from the counter to make his way to the door. Stepping beyond the threshold, he glanced over the darkened room, lit only by the fire place and a few candles here and there. By the time he returned it should be suitable and how he desired it. The firelight would be lower and he'd be left in his blessed darkness.

The lair had been so brightly and beautifully lit when she had arrived. Now wax bled from the candelabra, weeping. They did what he wouldn't at that time. Dismal night settled like a stifling blanket, threatening to consume completely, even the fireplace crackled and snapped in protest.

Measured steps drew him over to the table that held his hat, and lifting it by the brim he slid it back upon his head. Habitually the right side was smoothed down, curving it in an almost regal fashion, allowing more shadow to cast over porcelain. Turning to her he motioned to the couch with the scores. "Do not forget them. We shall work upon them come tomorrow evening."

She would have been swallowed by that great darkness had it not been for the ethereal glow of her wardrobe. The halo of her curls had loosened from the braid, several of her healthy spirals licking at her collar bone as she turned toward the couch to retrieve the scores. Closing the cover of _Il Muto _as she retrieved it from the cushions, she approached him with dissension in her heart.

_You will return, Christine ... to save your soul, and his. _She drew in a languid breath as she sighed and gazed at her surroundings one final time. Had she turned into a pillar of salt upon sight of his organ, and the score that rested unfinished atop it, her eyes would have frozen as they were, brimming with unshed tears for his dark fate. After a brief moment of this contemplative silence, she turned to him slowly.

When she faced him again he brought the faintest lift to the corner of his mouth and he shook his head gently. "Perhaps I should put on more suitable attire. I am hardly properly dressed to make the journey to the surface." In his lounging robe and sleep pants? Heavens no!

She gave an amiable little slew of laughter, her gaze drifting languidly along his casual attire. She nodded in mild agreement, moving from the door to wait as he changed. She wondered idly what time it was; deep within the underground of Paris, where sunlight dared not to venture, darkness and dream seemed to mingle and entwine, deceiving the senses, and considerably paling the pigment. She had not noticed his pallor until now.

Despite the low burning candles, the mask that split his countenance into ghostly proportions almost blended with the rest of his slender features ... almost. Save for its illuminated glow, accompanied by the flicker of amber within those two shadowed sockets, he was cloaked in darkness itself just as he had been the night he had abducted her.

So far away that all seemed, her great triumph a distant memory that produced a fond pang of remembrance in her heart…the warmth of that applause, applause she stood so far from, transfixed by the soaring height of her soul that only the Angel of Music could produce. But what of that childhood fairytale now? Christine gave a soft sigh, glancing once more over this kingdom – _where all, even I, must pay homage to his music._

Her laughter brought a bit of a smile to the side of his mouth and he stepped away from her with her nod. In no particular hurry, wishing to keep her here for just that much longer, he strode toward his room, the door nudging open with a quiet creak of protest. Completely dark, he didn't need light to navigate through the room, but brought spark to a candle nevertheless once the door was mostly closed behind him. He wanted to be able to hear her should she speak, whether it was to him or to herself.

So simple was this outing, as if it was not at all a return to the world outside but more so a simple carriage ride or a stroll along darkened Parisian streets. But nothing was ever that simple, Christine found. She resolved to wait for him where she stood, and upon noticing the death of a candle nearest her dark halo of curls, set about to revive its life. She reached forth carefully, grabbing a still glowing tower of wax and sharing its flame with the other. She did this with four or five of the surrounding candles, and though it was hardly enough to chase away the embracing depths of darkness, their luminary sparks flickered upon the still surface of the surrounding pools of water.

Parting the already loosened belt, he gave a shrug of his shoulders, allowing the silk to slither down over his arms and along the plane of his back and prominent, knobby spine. His face wasn't the only thing marred. Though it had been a considerable number of years, the proof of the lashings he had gained as a sideshow freak were still visible along his skin, paler than the already wan flesh.

Finding a simple chemise type of shirt and a vest, both dark in hue, he slid them on then tucked the hem of the first into his pants. Sandals were traded for shoes, and he slid the fedora back upon his head and returned to the main room, shutting the door behind him. He lingered there, his fingers resting against the brass plating, then continued on to the door that would lead out into the labyrinth. "Much better, I must say."

She nodded to herself in satisfaction, turning at the re-emergence of his glorious voice. Yes, _glorious_, even in such an average remark. She struggled with herself to not throw herself down at his feet and swear she would never leave his side, though surely some of her will survived to turn her against the notion quickly. Without his cloak, she remembered that he had given it to her the previous night. She had left it in the boat. And oh, with such memories came again that eternal moment within his arms.

She could still recall, as she had earlier, the warmth of his breath at her cheek, the same physical splendor of his pounding heart. She had felt it even through the constrictive material that kept their skin from meeting, hot on cold. She had sensed it within his liquid words; nothing in her had ever felt such control as at that moment. A beast chained by a garland of silk and lace.

With the portal's barricade already opened, she stepped through so she could follow him down the length of the candle lit hallway. The light was sparse, almost gone, and he had no thoughts of returning the brightness to its former glory. It would be dark and gloomy before he even entered his lair, preparing him for the vast emptiness that lay just beyond. Ayesha was good company, though she didn't make a good enough conversation partner for him to be entertained for too long. While he might be genius in many ways, he had yet to decipher the meanings behind most of her purrs, mews and movements.

Where before he lured Christine with song and a gentle humming within his throat that broke the encompassing silence, now that stillness was allowed to envelope them, stifling in its overly quiet hold. As he walked, keeping his strides measured so she'd be able to stay with him, he thought. Constantly thinking, it seemed. His mind was the only place he could gain solace, and torment all in one stroke. A double edged sword, indeed. A few 'what if's' came to his mind, most of all what if she refused to come to the lair tomorrow? Refused him? What would he do then? Surely he wouldn't drag her down here, would he?

She gave one last goodbye to the shadowed realm, following him through the door and into the dim hallway. She moved as a ghostly blur behind his darkened form, uncomfortable in the heavy silence but speaking not of it. She felt punished by it, strangely enough. In his song, even the gentle melody of a softened hum or the impassioned dance of his fingers upon the ivory keys of the grand organ within his home, she felt sluggish, sedated. His words alone held her on the crest of an enraptured wave, as if beneath the spoken evidence of his affection – could one call it affection, or a simple desire to teach and guide her? – was ever lingering the prowl of his secret passions. This fact alone both drew her in and repelled her, and she was terribly torn because of it.

Christine had found that over the past hours she had spent with him, not only had his voice held this control over her but his eyes as well, and she finally understood why it was that when she sang forth her heart into Heaven each night of her lessons, the heat of his eyes was always the first sign of his presence. However, this silence ... why, it was unbearable! She felt a slap to the face as each light reverberation of her footsteps in the hall sounded out over her heart, which beat slow and easy within her breast, unafraid. But her body was tense, a mouse awaiting the strike of a prowling serpent.


	37. Chapter 37

It was his empathic nature that allowed him to feel the tension that ran over her, sinking deeply into every sleek muscle he had once, in a dream, worshiped through touch. He woke within his own cold sweat, stomach knotted and disturbed greatly.

She had felt the first gush of chilled air even before they had moved into that massive cavern that had yet to warm with the coming day. Five stories below the building, it would take plenty of time, and yet his skin had become used to it, soaking up the chill like second nature. The mist was heavier than before, and as it had once seemingly bowed away from its masked and ever elusive lord, it now sought to consume them both in its translucent cloud. Even the aura that seemed to surround her, an unseen halo that topped her nest of splendid curls, could not hope to frighten away the phantoms and the ghouls that, many times in the stories her father had told her, came to capture the fair and virtuous princess from her prince.

She gave a small shake of her head with the thought, inwardly mocking her own foolish and naive innocence, the innocence that she had so willingly served to him, simple and trusting youth that she was. She shivered with the cold, her gaze leery as she glanced from his eyes to the cloak he held in his hands, offering and inviting. Would he again lash out on her? Snatch her in his arms, take her for his own there beneath the promise of guidance and teaching? His eyes alone cast a spell enough to chase such thoughts away as they softened beneath her wary look.

She edged closer, turning in mid-step to slip beneath the weight of the heavy cloak. His knuckles brushed the patch of sensitive exposed skin at the gently sloping nape of her neck, and she gave a softened sigh.

The graze was brief, but enough to bring a faint smile across his lips, and draping the heavy cloth over her shoulders, he adjusted it. Drawing it closer in the front, he pulled the cloak over her shoulders so it wouldn't slip off. "Am I still your angel?" he questioned gently, his voice a lot closer than his lips actually were. He continued to stand behind her, looking down upon her black swathed form. His hands removed, they had lowered down to his sides, his fingers comfortable curling, relaxed.

The cloak was a welcome shield against the chill of the cavern, and as she stood before him, aware of every movement he made at her back, it struck her that in this creature she could find little to hate, little, even, to think ill of him. And she had tried! Oh, how she'd tried ... but that face, despite its horrid deformity and the gaunt and twisted features, still haunted her in such a way as to inspire sympathy.

She had first taken pity on him, then somehow had grown to like him. It was certainly not the same passion she had experienced for her Angel of Music, nor the tender affection she held for Raoul. It lingered between, drifting in and out of the shadows of her secret heart. She trembled with fear under the thunder of his voice in one moment, and in the next find herself succumbing to his words ... his touch.

With his question, her chin tilted over her shoulder ever so slightly as she gave her response, softly, "Yes." Behind that simple word lay years of pain and unexpressed grief over her father's death. He had promised her the Angel of Music. She could still see his eyes, frightened by death, staring up at her from above the sunken hollows of his cheeks. He clutched her hand, and he_ promised_ her. And be Erik a man or a monster, never before had a soul touched her own. He gave her wings, as the great genius, the Celestial figure of her childhood dreams, only could. Damned or deceptive in his title, she would follow him still.

It was as if an eternity passed before she spoke, and the breath that he wasn't aware of holding was released with one slow exhale. A momentary closing of his eyes and he nodded, then turned to the boat. With the pole lifted from the side, he sank it within the water, and held his hand out for her to take. He wouldn't grab her as he had her chin earlier, but let her come to him. He wouldn't let her try to enter the boat without assistance, a misstep could disrupt its balance and make it tip.

Once her hand touched his own, he curled his fingers around it gently, then eased her toward him so she'd be able to step into the gondola. She held her hand out for assistance, unafraid but ever mindful of the spellbinding effect his touch tended to have. The leather of his gloves proved cold under her palm. With her free hand, she gathered the train of her robe and lifted it to lick upon her slender ankles, climbing carefully into the gondola. Secure inside, she allowed that simple contact to remain as she lowered her form cautiously to the cushioned floor of the boat. Only when she felt safe at last, did she release her hold.

Waiting until she'd settled, he climbed in the rest of the way, standing upon the length of platform, and with a push of the pole they began their journey through the labyrinth of rivers. He quieted again, not sure of what to say, even if the silence was awkward. It should not bother him, he was used to it. But this time that uncomfortable sensation rested within him. His eyes lowered, pulling his attention from the misted river, to the curled and braided hair of the young woman.

Christine remembered little of the journey made here: his gentle humming, the reflection her glowing attire made in the murky waters, the gentle lapping of the water against the wooden skiff, the dull flickering of the lantern suspended from the mast the only source of guidance in a world otherwise enshrouded in darkness. She observed all of this now with equanimity, her arms folded over her slender waist as they traveled on. Seeking to break the silence, she spoke up softly, "Where did you come from? With a name like 'Erik,' I would assume you would be a countryman of mine." The name certainly held Scandinavian origins, and after all, if he was an Angel in a mere mortal vessel, surely the shell itself had its own story to tell?

Pausing during one stroke of the pole through the water, he gave a slight furrow of brows that was half lost behind the porcelain of the mask. He let the silence settle for a bit longer before he spoke slowly, seemingly unsure. Or perhaps there was more behind his words. So soft and weighted, but with what? "I do not recall." He wouldn't expand more upon that, not on his own. If her curiosity led her to delve further, then he'd go on. But the memories...the memories were something he didn't want to dig up by his own will.

Sliding the pole up, he brought it along the other side of the skiff, and turned a corner, luring them out into the darkness with only the small light in the front to guide their way. She had sat with her back to him, though now she shifted carefully on her perch to lift her eyes to his face. Or rather, the mask. It was the only thing she could make out from the enveloping darkness, and in some quixotic way it comforted her. She was not alone with that porcelain peering back at her.

It was sad that he could not remember his place of origin. Or was that, she reasoned, the curse of all beings blessed with such divine gifts? Could she fathom that kind of pain? One could suspect she might, but for all of her tender heartedness, her kind and compassionate grace, curiosity was her flaw, seen in the consequences of her desire to know what lay behind that mask. "How did your face …" She paused abruptly, and the hand that had lifted to gesture toward his mask and the deformity below ... dropped into her lap, hidden beneath the lapels of his cloak. The fabric swallowed up her slender form until she leaned forward, and it shifted back to reveal the white of her robe – a sharp contrast to the surrounding abyss. She was sorry for daring to ask such a thing, and it showed. Her brow creased, the corners of her lips turning under.

A wince drew him from where his thoughts were beginning to go. He was grateful for the intrusion, yet at the same time not. She was asking about his face, the hatred he had since the first moment he looked into a mirror and saw the monster in it. How he would have been comforted by Mother's words if she had told him that it was only an illusion. But no... she spoke to him the truth, at so young an age. Older, he would have been more understanding. But Mother was never accepting, from the moment he was born until just an hour prior to his disappearance. It was terrible luck and irony that she changed her thoughts and heart just before she found the bloodied couch empty.

"I was born this way," he mentioned calmly, but softer than he had commented upon his origins. Still, nothing more. He was trying to draw himself out of the blackened depths before they consumed him and made the silence ever more uncomfortable. She felt a heartless fool for asking such a question. And while she was preoccupied with inwardly cursing herself, he was alone in thought ... suffering the memories of a past better left forgotten.

His answer sent a pang to her heart, the pity so heavy and pressing that it threatened to bring her heart into her throat. But no, it only brought tears unshed. They brimmed in her wide eyes, glistening in the pale flicker of light up ahead of them. What could she say to that? It was natural instinct to apologize, despite the fact that the fault was not her own. It wasn't even his, in truth. One could not ask for such a monstrous deformity within the womb, nor prevent it upon the moment of birth. He was ... stuck.

She lowered her gaze to her lap, a single tear tracing its path down over her rosy cheek, clinging to the slope of her jaw momentarily before falling to its inevitable death. _Poor, unhappy Erik _she had said. She gathered enough calm to veil her genuine hurt for him as she questioned, "And your mother and father? What of them?" Unbeknownst to her, the question agitated a scabbed wound.

Sliding the pole from the water again, he brought it around to his left side, ensuring that he pulled it back far enough so he wouldn't hit the boat or her. Sinking it back into the blackened depths, he pressed the pole against the ground below, gliding them along in an unhurried pace. Another wince and he closed his eyes, fingers clenching tightly against the blackened post. _Do not get angry. She does not know. She is just curious. As curious as she was when she stripped you of your mask. _

Setting his jaw faintly he opened his eyes again to look out into the darkness. He had attacked the Daroga before for asking him such a simple question, it was the natural reaction of a wounded animal when backed into a corner. "I knew not of them," he answered impassively. It was the truth. During the nine years he had been beneath his mother's roof he knew as little of her as he did of Christine. Except her anger. Perhaps that's where he got his temper. Mother often was calm then lashed out with a slap without warning. Though ...maybe not. His temper was far more vicious. That could be attributed to the abuse he had gained over this near-half century.

_Born into this world, and knowing not of his parents?_ Christine tried to sympathize, but she had known her own. Not as much of her mother as of her father, but never before had she been estranged by them, at least not until the passing of her father when she was left in the care of Professor Valerius and his wife. She lifted her gaze to his own, and it was clear now that she could not deny him. Loathsome creature he might be, or simply the product of Fate's cruel selection, she could not reject him.

_Destiny has chained you to me forever._

Christine sighed, taking in that solemn and shadowed countenance without fear or suspicion, and even with her eyes she unmasked him once more, raking over that horrid tragedy with the tenderness of a touch conceived from kindness and adoration. In her mind, of course. She dared not to again face his anger, but instead mentally kissed away those silent tears from his cheeks with the affection that was bred in her heart.

He believed it was a good thing that he never got to meet his father. He might be a lot more bitter than he was already. Two parents would have hated him instead of one. He refused to shed any tears for the hatred his mother had for him, and even as Christine looked back he continued staring forward, focusing upon the darkness that awaited them, only to be chased by the light from the small lantern.

He turned his thoughts toward lighter things; Giovanni and how he was accepted by the man. He tried not to think of the tragedy that came because of his selfish, spoiled daughter, but instead on the kindness gained by the older mason. The pole was lifted again, the silence broken by the gentle droplets that fell along the water, then the sinking of the pole. It grazed against the ground, raking and vibrating through the length. It was what drew him back to the present, refusing to linger too far into the past.

Indeed, as his thoughts drifted, her own did the same. Was she having second thoughts on leaving him now? Perhaps. Or it was that she wished only to remain to perhaps put some cheer in his otherwise empty world, if she could. Christine was a dreadfully naive and superstitious girl. She was quiet, even shy, ever timid to venture into something too quickly, too irrationally. What good could her company promise, other than the amiable resonance of her voice and her vast knowledge of the beautiful, gentle, or terrible legends of the Northlands, passed down from her father.

However, the surface waited.

Carlotta, for all of her pompous airs and her assuredly violent temper tantrums upon hearing of Mademoiselle Daae's great triumph, nevertheless awaited. Really, it was where she belonged. She drew her gaze toward her lap after a long moment, a curl straying into her vision. She drew it back with the brush of her palm, smoothing her fingers over the braid she hadn't realized still held her mounds of dark hair in place.

_No more questions_, he was grateful for the silence. Torch light glinted off in the distance, revealing to them the cavern that they had passed through before. She wouldn't remember, she was too enthralled by his voice at the time. "No others need know where I live, Christine. If they find out, then I cannot be here any longer." This time he broke the silence, his voice raising no more than a whisper. He didn't think she'd ever lead anyone to his lair, though he had to make sure she understood that doing this would be very terrible. It could mean his death.

After bringing havoc to the opera house for years, there were many who would love to get their hands upon him, to make sure he never haunted these walls again. "I could not be with you any longer." That is what he was most worried about, being driven away from her. Even after her betrayal, he couldn't bear the thought of being apart from her.

The light from the cavern ahead was a comfort, she had begun to fear that they would forever travel in darkness, her eyes untrained to the depths of the abyss, unlike his own. She turned her chin over her shoulder, listening intently to his gentle words. Barely above a whisper, and all but lost had she not paid mindful attention to them.

She understood immediately the consequences of such an action, and wondered she would ever find it necessary to lead anyone to this secret place. No, surely not. Especially if it meant that she would never again be able to see him. She nodded softly, her tongue snaking forth to moisten her lips as she did. For as much as he had frightened her, Christine was ever devoted. Perhaps, too much so. But how could she not be? His thrall was so powerful that even this very cavern she did not recognized, having passed through it but a night before. It took some amount of control to not throw up arms with his whispered words at this point!

"I understand." Too many thoughts plagued her; she longed to turn the subject to something else. "What time will you come for me?" She did not even know the time at present, and so refrained from asking upon the hour or day in which she would again pass into that mirror.

"When the sun has set and all have gone." It was the usual time he came. If others weren't there, then they wouldn't get suspicious about her disappearing should they come knocking. "Should you need me ... you have only to call for me here, and I shall come to you." He might not hear her down within the lair, but that only meant he would remain above, waiting on bated breath for her beckon, if he hadn't come to her already.

Carefully gliding the skiff through the narrow passageway, he approached the dock, eyeing it with some loathing for this would be the true beginning of him returning her to her beloved light. Slowing down with the press of the pole, he eased them near the jutting of wood until the skiff tapped against its side lightly. Lowering the pole he stepped out with one foot and held the boat steady. Shifting his weight from one foot to the other, he held his hand out to her so she'd be able to climb out without flaw.

She was pleased that she could have that assurance from him, call him, and he would come. One minor thing that she did not remember until they had docked. She found herself taking his hand in her own as she climbed from the gondola carefully, the cloak was still heavy and warm upon her shoulders, and as she moved to unfasten the clasp at its collar, she questioned suddenly, "How do I get here exactly?" She had not seen how the mirror had moved in such a way to grant her entrance ... in fact, she had not even realized it had moved at all.

The sequence of events was such a blur, and his power had been strong and grew stronger with each passing note of his flowing, melodic humming. That divine voice ... Christine trembled as she slipped the cloak from her shoulders, suspending it at arm's length to him. There was gratitude in her eyes as the corners of her lips curled heavenward, but she most certainly felt the repercussions of removing it.

The temperature was more tolerable as they neared a source of heat – the furnaces were a story above them – but the mist still seeped and threatened to tug her once more into the pits. Behind her lay the passage way to the long stair well that would lead her to her mirror. Before her, Erik; the Angel of Music, her guide and guardian, the mortal source of her impassioned reveries. She found it exceedingly difficult to draw her eyes from his.

* * *

_Well... Back in black. Or something along those lines. Story isn't as hard for me to continue posting anymore, and I hope you continue to enjoy the saga. For those that held out for me to get out of this slump, thanks much._


	38. Chapter 38

"_How do I get here exactly?" She had asked, removing the cloak to hand it back to him. _

Ready to protest her removal of the cloak, he kept his voice silent. If she believed that she wouldn't be cold then he wasn't going to act like a mother hen, even if that's what he was in a way. Her protector. He had promised that he would keep her safe, even if it was from the cold.

Stepping closer he slid his fingers along the cloth, taking it up, and with a practiced movement, he brought it up and around, the hem billowing about his form slightly before it settled, placidly, around his ankles. The only flesh that was left to be seen was half of his face and his neck.

"Magic," he stated with a smile to her. He just might show her how he got the mirror to move when they returned. At that time he might go into some mechanical explanation that could be beyond her understanding. She was a smart girl, though. Moving down the dock and gathering the lantern, he brought it with them so she'd be able to see the paths he took to get to her room, in case she wanted to come down by herself.

Was that a smile? She could not help but return one of her own, his jesting tone a comfort whereas once it was solemn and disheartening. Mention of his origin, his deformity, his parents ... most definitely not the kind of topics to bring up with him.

She moved to follow him, the pool of the lamp light a guide for her feet as they moved to the narrow stair well. With her hand braced to the cold stone, she lifted with the other a handful of her skirt and robe, absorbing her surroundings as they climbed further inside of the imperial building, a world within a world. With each step taken there was hope for the daylight, or the comfort of her bed, or even the gentle welcome of tender arms. She was much too attached to the life she knew to ever fully abandon it, as much as she adored her Erik. That fact alone furthered the complexity of a situation that needed it not.

He wasn't looking forward to the long path that would return them to the surface, where he would return her. It would be a long time before he saw her again. A day – though it was still too long in his opinion. He glanced back to her, as if to ensure that she was still following him, and upon seeing her there he turned his head around again, raising the lantern a bit higher.

A few dirty gray rats scurried out of the way, and he glanced down toward them in distaste. Is this what he had resorted to? Living among rodents? He was glad they never attempted to get into his tightly sealed home, and should they attempt travel through the portcullis, they would be met with a swift death by either Ayesha or himself. Perhaps that's what kept them away, knowing there were two hunters lurking within.

Again he broke the silence when they reached the level of the furnaces. "The audience will love you as their Countess." And simply adore him for having Carlotta as the pageboy.

The red eyed devils stirred her to quicken her pace, drawing near his right side as she did. Christine had heard stories of the floors beneath the stage and dressing rooms, of the rat catcher, often mistaken for the Phantom himself. Or the men who worked the furnace night and day, covered in soot and taking on the likeness of demons as their shovels transformed into pitchforks and their teeth ground out threatening death toward any passerby.

It was a completely different animal down here, away from the world of lavish sophistication and ladies whispering behind fans of this new patron or that, of men eyeing the newest Prima Donna, a vision in flowing white, a sight that made them happier with dreams than with wives. Perhaps it was why she fancied him, so strange in this setting. His attire was strictly evening wear, tailored and expensive though she questioned how he managed to attain the clothes in the first place. His remark brought a bitter grimace to her expression, "As will Carlotta, I trust."

"Worry not of Carlotta." That woman wouldn't pose a problem once he contacted her. Then again, she had always proved to be difficult and stubborn. There were notes he had to write, informing the managers about his opinion concerning the opera. Not only that but a reminder for them to pay him his salary and maybe... just maybe, he'd send one to not only Carlotta, but Christine's beloved Raoul, warning him not to attempt to see Christine. _Ever. _Something deep down told him that the note wouldn't be enough.

Tipping his chin toward his shoulder he glanced back at her, then faced forward again with a subtle drawing down of his brows. Thoughtful, he adjusted his grip upon the lantern. He traveled up to the next story, leaving the scent of soot and brimstone behind him. Every journey he smelled it, as if he was constantly bordering Hell. "I will ensure that you will be the Countess. Besides, Carlotta would be much better suited as the mute."

How could Christine_ not_ trust in his assurance? Elissa had been made her role, had it not? Despite the rather ... unfortunate sequence of events. The stage hands had prepared the beam and removed the canvas by now – they were diligent if not rough men – making preparations for the Opera's next production. _Il Muto._ _And I shall play the Countess. _Her mind was an endless train of disjointed thoughts and mismatched 'What if's', which showed in her creased brow, the concern that filtered through her expression, and in the manner in which she habitually nibbled at the inside of her lips.

The air again grew cold, the strong smell of the furnaces drifting away as she rounded the corner behind him and began the trek up the next flight of stairs. She braced herself against the clammy stone with her free hand, the other still maintaining its persistent hold on the robe and chemise.

The poor child would have completely slipped into her troubling reverie had it not been for his remark, one she could not help but find humorous. Indeed, _well _suited for the mute was Carlotta. She could almost hear the sneer in Carlotta's contemptuous voice now; envision the pout that would most assuredly riddle her heavily painted features as the managers swooned over her.

"The stone is weak here," he spoke gently, keeping close to the wall as he walked. He slowed his pace so she'd be able to keep up with him, and so he could grab her should a portion of stone crumble beneath her slight weight. As long as she remained away from the edge, she would have nothing to worry about.

The rumbling of the furnaces dimmed, returning the silence that they had held before. The need for the lantern had diminished, and he brought his other hand up to turn the key, lowering the flame before it was snuffed out completely. There were still a few floors to go before they would reach the opera house. He knew this, and it only bothered him more than it had before. His thoughts traveled from one thing to another, only to return to the opera that was to come soon.

Had it been so long? The past months seemed to have gone by so quickly. How far was it from the new year he wondered? That was one day he could come out of hiding and not have to worry about curious stares when he appeared in a mask. The ball was the only thing he tended to look forward to. The previous manager used to hold some extravagant masquerade balls, and he only hoped that these two fools would keep the tradition.

She heeded his warning, staying close to the opposite wall and even closer behind him. The thickness of his cloak seemed almost to engulf her, two great black wings that she walked between, far from harm and concern. But was it ever just _that_, the reassurance of a lead role here and there, the lessons deep within the under grounds of the Opera? Was he but her teacher, her earthly exiled Angel of Music? No ... no, it was never_ that simple _Christine reasoned.

As his thoughts seemed fixed upon the Opera and the Masque that would be held on New Year's, her own were focused more so on the approaching anniversary of her father's death. Every year since his passing she had visited that lonely little cemetery a mile outside of Perros-Guarec, flowers bestowed on a mausoleum that looked always the same, dreary, unfriendly, nestled amidst withering ivy and the plastered, straight forward stares of angels knelt in prayer to a God that offered little beauty. In truth, Christine dreaded the visit. Her trusting and fantastical heart had taught her perseverance in the pursuit of her dream that her father perhaps was not dead, only sleeping deep in the grave that he would someday wake and emerge from.

But now?

How was it that these past months, while transforming her voice and her spirit to sing and to act ... only furthered the dissonance in her heart? Her dreams of her childhood had died, and in that space only grew reveries of ... depthless black, void of laughter or even tears, full of the unspeakable pleasure wrought by the presence of her Angel of Music. The Angel of Music, who was a man, and who had a name ... _Erik_. Christine felt her cheeks flush as they continued on.

The journey wasn't easy. A few times he wanted to turn around and go back to his lair with her in tow. But she had to be returned. She couldn't remain down there with him, kept from the limelight he was trying to place her in. She would go back to his lair, every night if possible. Just so he could get rid of the loneliness for a few hours. It was torture, of course. To be able to see her, knowing that he had to return her to that terrible world above. He was her protector, one to shelter her. But how could he accomplish that completely if he couldn't be out in the open?

His thoughts had been so deep that he very nearly missed the playful screeches of young women a floor above. His fingers curled within the cloak, bringing it around him as if it was a shield. She might have returned it to him near the boat, but that didn't stop him from wondering if she was still cold. He didn't want her getting sick. While part of him believed it was because he didn't want her voice to be ruined, another part knew it was because he wouldn't be able to stand her being ill, or hurt. Another peal of laughter brought his head up slightly as he paused just beneath a trap door and listened while his eyes focused upon the path they'd take to her room.

"Skin like yellow parchment, I tells ya. He ain't got no nose, but he can smell ya comin' from a mile away." Erik pressed his lips thin and he rolled his shoulders back, ridding them of the tension that was beginning to trail over the muscles. Instead of going forward, he climbed the steps to the door and deftly removed the lock. Buquet spoke of seeing the Phantom as if he wanted to meet him again. So be it. Pressing up the door, he scaled the stairs further, and lowered his hand to her.

She was lifted from her shameful thoughts with that slew of laughter, followed shortly by curt applause and coos of wonderment. _Buquet is up to his old tricks again_, she figured. The stage hand had a way about him, and his enjoyment was undeniable in his swarthy expression as he told of the Phantom of the Opera, and how _he _had braved the ghostly figure numerous times! Always then, Christine remembered, he would puff his chest up proudly.

The laughter was familiar, and Christine murmured beneath her breath to herself, "That's Cecile …" before she was cut off by the emergence of another voice. Madame Giry. Oh, how close she was to the world and yet so far! She could almost see the dance mistress' stern eyes upon Buquet as she approached. Above Christine's head, she could even make out the faint distinction of that wooden cane tapping against the floor. Giry's words were soft, however. Almost as if she was pulling little Meg from the gathered group, and Christine's eyes lifted to the boards above as she strained to hear.

Gathered near a series of props, that littered the floor below the dressing rooms for the ballerinas, was a small group of girls. In the center of them was Buquet with a dingy 'cloak' over his shoulders that was no more than a length of ratty blanket, undoubtedly a piece of prop that had been moth eaten down with the other things. A lasso within one hand, he made a clawing of his fingers with the other, distorting his face in a comical sneering snarl. "See this 'ere?" He held up the lasso, shaking it around slightly to flick this way and that.

"This may be ya death if ya don't keep yer guard up. Magical, it is. Only way to keep it from chokin' ya.." He trailed off, lifting his arm and flicking the lasso around his own neck, then pulling it tight, trapped both his neck and the arm. "Like this." Even though the pungent Chief of Flies noticed Giry, he didn't stop with his little tale. He was having far too much fun. Amused, a mask concealed Erik's lifting brow. He had never used the lasso around Buquet; maybe it had been seen the night he frightened the man sober. Taking her hand, he helped her through the door, then use his foot to close it again with a loud clap of wood to wood.

Madame Giry stood facing this scene without interest, her icy gaze fixed directly upon Buquet as the surrounding girls bounced about on their limber little limbs and offered their own slew of roaring applause at his demonstration. That is, until the shadow that lurked just behind the burly stage hand grew across the wall and threatened to gobble them up. Meg noticed it first, her shrill scream exciting the others. They all linked hands, a train of scurrying gauze tutus and peach tights that fled from the room in perfect unison, each trembling with fear and excitement over this new item of enticing gossip that would be shared in the dancer's lounge.

"Right pretty girls," he murmured beneath his breath then grinned slowly as he removed the lasso from around his neck to tuck it back beneath his 'cloak.' He then turned, about to say something to the Madame only to freeze, his eyes wide as he met the golden gaze not too far from the woman's back, its form silhouetted by the light behind the ghost.

Erik had gathered Christine's hand within the startling chill of his own, and Christine obliged, recognizing the same cold in her own. How long had she been within those depths? Surely not so long as to take on any of the physical remnants of its darkened hold? Christine was wary of climbing those stairs into such exposure, but took his hand nevertheless and made the short flight carefully. She emerged from the trap door soon after him, her gaze immediately fixing on Madame Giry as they passed behind her. Erik's own eyes were fixed upon the scene shifter. Though Christine lips almost lifted into a wan smile, she noticed that the elder was not looking in their direction, though she seemed aware of it by charge of that startling wood to wood disturbance. No, Madame Giry's gaze was fixed on the foolish Buquet. Scolding him. _Warning him._

When his cloak was drawn around her, Christine moved along with him in shadow, as close to him as she had been hours before in that sensual and intoxicating embrace, though she did not sense it, nor have in her mind time enough to comprehend it. While it might be amusing for the man to tell such tales, it was starting to irritate the one he was speaking of._ Yellow parchment, indeed, _Erik thought with a sneer.One of these days he was going to show him just how that lasso worked. Without a sound, he continued through the lick of shadows traveling between beams and props before coming to a bare wall, well out of sight. He could have gone straight while still underground, but he couldn't help but put the scare into Buquet.

As they moved on, Madame Giry instead approached Buquet slowly. She spoke as if to draw the man's glance from the two spirits who passed behind her now. "Those who speak of what they know ... or claim to have seen," she lifted a brow heavenward, "find, much too late, that prudent silence is most wise." She fixed him with a steely glare, her voice lowering considerably. "If I were you, Joseph Buquet, I would hold my tongue. Those eyes can burn through a man."

His eyes continued to rest upon the hall that the two vanished down, but when the Madame spoke he glanced over toward her quickly and removed the cloth from his shoulder to toss it away from him. His heart was pounding harshly within his chest and his ears. "Uh.. right. Silence." He might 'agree' now that silence was wise, but by tomorrow he'd be telling another tale. This time of the Phantom and the ghost that had been with him. He was focusing too much upon those eyes to notice exactly who sported that bit of white he had seen. Clearing his throat he returned to the work of hefting another heavy portion of prop to his shoulders and wandered off.

Meanwhile the wall was entered and the last bit of corridor was reached. He paused at the end of the stairs in front of her mirror, and as if he had just noticed that he held her hand still, he loosened the grasp and stepped away from her, bringing the winged flutter of the cloak from her side. He turned his head to glance down toward her, the gaze a lot cooler than the one he had focused upon the loud mouth. "Here we are," he said, stating the obvious, and he motioned to the stairs and started scaling them with obvious hesitation.

Christine paid little mind to her surroundings, too hurried in her steps. Upon lifting her gaze from the floor beneath them, she was surprised to find that this trek to the stairs that led to her mirror was so short. Fascinated, she drew up the stairs at his side. "My dressing room ... why, you can see everything from here." So, this was where he had instructed her all of those months when she had in vain pleaded to see him. He could, after all, see her.

A thought occurred to her then, and she eyed the dressing screen at the far end of the room warily. From no angle could she find a way to see behind its intricately designed canvas, and perhaps there was a trace of bitterness in her soft words. "All of this time, you have watched me from here ..." There was something intimate in that thought, and at the same time unnerving. She shivered slightly, lifting her gaze to find him staring placidly back at her. And when he made no move to remove his gaze, she found in its depths the trace of some restraint she could not name. She was humbled and robbed of her defenses beneath those heavy, amber eyes ... but she did not move.

"No. Not everything. I saw nothing more than would be decent." The bitterness in her voice was magnified by his own self loathing, something he believed she felt toward him now. She knew the truth, knew that he had been watching her all this time, and yet when he had the chance to see her bare... "I turned while you dressed behind the screen. I would never deny you your modesty." _And what would be decent to you, Erik? _The harsh thought she had was left at just that, _thought. _Because of the fear he had instilled in her, she could not bring herself to hurt him, this man born with an accursed deformity and lacking the adequate love of home and country.

Thinking it best to drag the conversation elsewhere, he stepped closer to the mirror and lifted his hand, his fingers easily finding the pivot latch, and in a silent hiss, the mirror allowed the soft gust of warm air to be felt, such an opposite to his cold corridors. "There is a latch here..." he motioned her to lift her hand so she'd be directed to the latch. It wouldn't do well for her to be stuck beneath the opera house without her knowing how to escape the labyrinth passages. She'd be stuck until he came for her, or forced to return to the lair.

Her expression softened as she studied the travel of his hand in that smooth motion toward the wall. With a dull click, the one-sided mirror slid away, her form assaulted by the gust of warm air. Easy as that, and it was no wonder she hadn't remembered the simplicity. The fog of his glorious control had bewitched her from mundane reasoning and observation, and even the dressing room looked different.

The roses Raoul had sent still thrived upon each available surface, as did the other variations of white or yellow blooms sent by other would-be suitors that had, by now, forgotten her. Or, helped in musing over her disappearance that had by now covered every front page of the Paris papers. Someone, more than likely Madame Giry, had placed that single red rose into a tall, crystal vase. It sat on her dresser, omnipotent and seeing all, void of ebony ribbon, but nevertheless a mark of his inescapable presence. Christine hesitated in moving forward into her room, her gaze finding his one final time.

Lowering his hand and sinking his arm beneath the drape of the cloth, he turned a glance toward the room. Still swathed in pink and red petals, it was that lone red rose that caught his attention, looking unique and prized in that crystal vase. He didn't move into her room, and probably never would. Tipping his chin down he looked upon her face, her eyes. For a long time he was quiet, then spoke slowly, as if it was difficult to bring out the words. "I shall stop coming here if you so wish it. It must make you uncomfortable, knowing that I have been here..." He gestured within his general area, even though she knew what he was talking about. The arm then disappeared again and he glanced away from her, as if it was she that had the probing gaze instead of him.

"No." She spoke too soon, her own quickened response catching her off guard. She pursed her lips slightly, recovering. "No, you mustn't think that. I was only uncomfortable when I found that you had been watching me all this time, while I was assuredly acting in a most inexcusable manner." There was a bit of ironic laughter in her words, and she shifted forward to the threshold between one world and the next. "But now that I know you're here, I won't be so troubled."

Sweet thing, she would have curtsied had she only just met him, the familiarity betwixt them one of casual passing. But no, she only cast him a softened smile that never quite reached her shadowed eyes. Exhausted, or simply relieved by that comforting rush of heat to her cheeks and arms, she grew sluggish in her movements, released from his heavy spell and overtaken by the desire for sleep that she had experienced before, deep within the depths of his home.

He tilted his head slightly to the side, looking upon her again with an idle, curious study. Was she speaking the truth, or hiding her discomfort behind her words and a false smile? He nodded ever so slowly and glanced to her room. It did seem almost like a different world to him; light compared to the darkness he was used to, bright colors while his were mostly shadows and deep colors. The only light color that remained around the lair was cream from his candles and their subtle glow.

"You are tired," he half questioned, half commented. "Perhaps you should rest." And he would make sure she wouldn't be disturbed. With Christine back, he was sure that many would try to barge their way into her room to question her. He would speak with the Madame before he returned to his lair and the unfinished scores that were now crying out for his attention. If he couldn't work on _Don Juan Triumphant_, then he would find something else to occupy his time. He would rather spend it speaking with her, but she looked as if she needed the sleep.

Christine crept languidly into the room that some how appeared brighter than it had been before the abduction. A rush of memories assaulted her as she left his world and entered her own, the carpet a comforting change from the stone she had made her journey on. She was unsettled by this sudden change of surroundings, but more so by how vague and detached she felt from it. Already, the lure of those silent sirens in the mist beckoned her, the soft candle light in her dressing room holding little fascination as their kin had, so far below the structure of Garnier's palace. The chill of his touch still lingered, and not even her arms, as they encircled her abdomen lightly, could hope to chase it away. But above all those earthly sensations, there was that face.

_If a face was what it was._

Oh, to shut her eyes and awaken from this dream ... or nightmare! She could see it in his gaze when she had removed that porcelain mask; the anger, the sadness of the world, the heat of amber that could both disarm and terrify her, the hatred, the flood of tears that never came at her betrayal. The final chilling fact remained that because of her insipid curiosity, never again could she escape him. The question that lingered, however, was her stance on that solitary fact.

Once within the warm walls of her dressing room, she was aware of the happenings outside of her door. Chorus girls were coming and going, whispering, laughing, and quickly hushing as they passed by her door as if it alone was the dreadful portal to the hellish domains of the Phantom of the Opera. Christine turned toward him, the space where the mirror would have stood posing the inevitable barrier that would divide them until she returned to him, as she had promised.

It was that step from his world to the other that brought another faint furrowing of his brows. She would return, he assured himself. When he came back to this mirror, she would be there, waiting for him to bring her into his world. He kept his ground, moving no further than where he was, as if the mirror was a ward, blocking any other passage beside her own. Silently he stood there, observing her as she moved inside then turned to him.

"Rest well, Christine. You will need it for practice. Now that you are able to come to me... I can train more than just your voice. I can teach you how to act your parts as well as sing them." Tutor to student was how that voice sounded. Impersonal. Still he tried to dig himself out of this grave before it deepened to the point where he couldn't crawl free. But for every shovel full he tossed out, two more were tossed back in with each doe glance of her eyes, each smile... He stepped away from the opened mirror slightly, his hand lifting to rest upon the latch, but he didn't push it just yet.

There was something familiar in his professionalism, she noticed; it mimicked the tone he had taken during their first few lessons, when she was prone to mistakes and thus easily agitated by her faults. Had it been that long ago? Even the night prior seemed ages ago, stored in the past alongside her brief reunion with her childhood friend. She nodded slowly, aware that this moment would be their parting. Not forever, but for the moment.

Relief and lingering reluctance overtook her, her heart split between the two decisions: return with him now to the depths of his labyrinth, forever to serve and to sing, or flee from the room and the Opera House itself. For all the inner turmoil, her expression revealed little of her dissonance. Her complexion had paled considerably, but her lips retained that same pink softness. Her eyes were wide and distant as she gazed at him, the same deep color as her curls that were still held away from her cheeks and neck by the braid, but outwardly no major changes had occurred.

Granted, the front of her robe and chemise were dirtied by the soot from his fire place, when she had so foolishly leapt to salvage his work on _Don Juan Triumphant, _the score he would assuredly keep from their future repertoire. Other than that ... she was unharmed, unscathed, but certainly not unphased by that horrible image that would serve as both the source of her pity and her unspeakable terror.

His thoughts tore him in two; wanting badly to lure her back with him, but still that lingering knowledge of her being miserable down there flickered to mind. Would she truly be unhappy, though? He could make everything seem so perfect, so normal. He could make her happy, if she just gave him the chance. Index finger slowly traveled around the latch, then brushed over it, but not hard enough to trigger the pivot mechanism.

Drawing a slow breath he expelled it with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Sweet dreams, my dear." So affectionate; those two words. Soft as a brush of fingers to cheek, a touch he dared not give lest he ruin her ... ruin _this_ further. He hadn't shown her how to operate the mirror from inside, but she was a smart girl. If she truly wished to come visit him without his bidding, then she'd figure out how to trigger the latch from the inside. It wasn't too difficult; a slide of her hands along the frame and she'd find it.

It felt as if it would take great effort to go, but he steeled his resolve and finally hit the latch. One moment he was there before her, and during her blink, he was gone, left with only her reflection staring back. He lowered his hand to his side, and only for a few minutes longer did he watch her before he departed. He had the Madame to find, and so it was to her office that he would travel first. In the back of his mind he had the idea that she would mention his 'promise' was broken. Christine saw him after he said he wouldn't allow her to.

Gone in the blink of an eye. Her reflection was the only image to accompany her. Christine stood studying her own reflection for a long while, contemplating the events that had both plagued and blessed her over the passing months. How many times had she gazed at her own reflection, just as she did now? Countless times, of course! And he had been there, watching in silence ... or throwing his voice this way and that, deceiving her. Oh, but she could not hate him and Heaven forgive her for it! At last, Christine drew herself from that reflective and intrusive surface, turning to examine the dressing room with dull interest.

_There _... there had Raoul stood, transporting her with his words back into a happier time and place, when the light was not quite as harsh to her lovely eyes as they proved to be now. _There_ she had stood when the Voice called to her,_ there_ she had drifted into darkness with the cool touch of a hand. Each inch of the room took on a specific significance in her life at present, and even the rose on the dresser proved to be both the comfort and the horror of her Erik.

With as much strength as she could muster, she moved to change from the attire she had donned the day before – her corset and slip chemise, robe, satin stockings, and slippers. Inappropriate, but really, had she time in her distant thrall to worry with such trivial manners of dress?**  
**


	39. Chapter 39

The Madame that Erik sought out had returned to her office as she always did after rehearsals. The bland walls proved adequate shelter from the simpering manager, who more than likely had also read the front page of _L'Epoque_, its headline exclaiming 'Mystery After Gala Night!' In truth, she found Monsieur Firmin to be much more of a task than Monsieur Andre, and suspected that the difference between each man's reaction would be vast.

Luckily, they hadn't read the news paper just yet. Or else the poor Madame would not hear the end of it. When Erik approached the portion of wall that would lead him to the woman's office, he tipped his head, listening carefully for any voices. Nothing was heard, not even the lightest scraping of sound.

He pressed his fingers against the portion of loose wood, and it hissed to the side gently, soundlessly. Induced by the sight of the dance instructor he stepped further into the room, habitually drawing down the right side of his fedora to further conceal his masked visage. He had only thought to borrow some of her paper to write upon while she was gone, but maybe her arrival could be of some use.

"Madame." A quiet word, gentle within its musical lilt. "If I might take a moment of your time. I believe I have a missive I would like you to deliver to the... illustrious managers." The sarcasm was thick in his words, even if there was a smile upon his lips.

It was no surprise he would appear to her after she had seen him ... and Miss Daae, a fact that disturbed her greatly. Though, partially because of fear and partially because of reverence of him, she refrained from mentioning it. The shift in the air drew her gaze from the paper to the portion of the wall that slid away before her, releasing his darkly garbed form into the room. Traditional fedora, cloak, and the oft amiable charm within his voice – really, he was but a man, this Phantom of the Opera. A man she knew too much about, and assisted all too willingly at times.

She stood with his remark, her slender fingers curling slightly at her sides as she remained poised and calm. "You gave me your word, Monsieur, yet you emerge from the trap door with the poor child at your side? What of that?" Madame Giry was angry, no doubt. Or rather, worried for the poor and impressionable girl. She rounded the desk as if to confront him, but dared not close the feet between them as she paused. "Where is she now?"

He knew it was coming, and patiently listened to her with a slow sideways tilting of his head, then simply repeated what he had heard before. "These things do happen." Elegant shoulders rose then fell with a slight shrug. He didn't want to explain why he took the girl. He didn't want her to think that it was from some sort of jealousy. Him, jealous? That would surely be laughable. Even that cynical part of him snickered about the prospect.

"She is unharmed, and in her dressing room. I assure you, Madame, my intentions were pure, and she remains so." His eyes faintly narrowed from beneath the rim of the fedora, but there was only a little irritation within that molten gaze. Moving from his corner spot, he passed by the door, slowly enough so he could slide a skeleton key into the lock and give it a twist. Leaving the key inside he slid his fingers away, and the thin pads brushed over the wood of her desk as he drew closer to it.

Seeking out a set of parchments he invited himself to settle behind her desk into the soft cushions of the chair. Gathering up her quill, he searched inside his cloak pocket for a particular vial he carried with him at all times. Never knew when he'd have to do something like this. Dipping the quill into the blood red ink, he began writing, as if this was a normal thing to do.

"Well, that's a relief." Not that she expected him to do anything; or so she told herself. She was not bothered by his casual airs. Really, she was surprised. Was there a spring in his step, perchance? Surely the product of his pupil's triumph, or even … of the pupil herself? "Christine enjoyed a great success, no doubt by your instruction." The way Giry figured it was this: as long as Christine was kept from the chorus line, she was brilliant. The girls danced, at best, like new born calves who tested their weakened legs hesitantly, but at least their efforts were masked by the brilliance of Christine's performance; she owed the woman-child that much.

The woman turned to eye Erik warily, her steel gaze drifting from the rim of his fedora to the parchment he had gathered and now scribbled, without close inspection, illegible words upon. She drew toward the edge of her desk, studying him from atop the perch of her rather large nose.

_Christine enjoyed a great success. _He paused, tilting his head at what he had just written. It wasn't what he had meant to scrawl down, but it worked. That's what happened when someone tried to listen to who they were talking to and write at the same time. "Christine was excellent, beyond excellent. It was not only my instruction that brought her voice on high, but her own exuberance with learning all I can teach her." The fedora tipped up slightly when she stepped closer, and he regarded her quietly before drawing his attention to the parchment.

Finishing off the note he began upon the next one, just as short as the first. "She is turning out to be a most formidable student." Was there a...smile at the corner of his mouth? Why yes, yes there was. Shadowed by hat or not, it was there nevertheless. "I shall continue with her training, until she surpasses anything I might be able to teach her. Until she is perfect. Then..." _Then what, dear man? _He paused in the writing and looked over what he had taken down so far. "..then I shall finish my score."

Giry picked up on much more than she had wished to in his words. Was he growing fond of the chorus girl? Heaven be with the child if so. She nodded slowly with his final remark, resolving to leave him at last and fly to the girl. She no doubt still lingered in her dressing room, if only an hour earlier they had returned, and Giry was anxious to assure that the young star was safe.

"If you no longer need my services, I will tend to Mademoiselle Daae." Perhaps she would send her home? Yes, she would do just that. The Opera House was no place for her now, not with Carlotta made aware by now of Christine's triumph over all of Paris, nor with the anxious managers scurrying about. She turned on her heels, making for the door though she half expected him to call out a demand of this nature or that for her to carry out. Such was the understanding between the pair, after all.

"Actually, yes. Deliver this to managers." Finishing off the note, he folded it neatly, then fishing free a hard, waxen stick from the same place he had gotten the metallic vial of ink, he took a nearby candle to the end of the stick. Dripping the wax upon it, he used the bottom portion of the vial to press into the liquid, cooling it down and leaving an impression of a skull as a seal. The other notes he'd deliver himself.

Rising to a statuesque stand, he approached her with the pale parchment between equally wan fingers. Thin and delicate, they didn't look to hold the strength they actually had. Once the note was taken he moved back over to the desk and lowered to a sit. "After you see to Mademoiselle Daae, of course. She seemed a bit exhausted," he stated distractedly as he scrawled over the parchment swiftly. The two to the managers were finished, the final two wouldn't take nearly as long: one to La Carlotta, and the last to Raoul.

Straightening up the desk, and treating these parchments as he did the others with a folding and seal, he collected the four and pressed to a stand. With the chair pushed beneath the desk he returned to his dark domain. And yes, that did look like a lighter step. The dark, cold and ominous presence he normally held almost felt more...welcoming and warm.

The thought occurred to the dance instructor, as she observed his lighter movements and the air within his remarks, that perhaps these passing events could hold in them some lingering doom for the future. A 'snapped' beam they could replace, but the leading soprano and her foremost competitor? Hardly. He wrote the letters with such conviction, he appeared almost akin to a ruler ... passing an edict, which fell into her hands to deliver.

She took the letter without question, daring not to break the seal and read it as she bowed out humbly. She turned the key in the lock slowly, opening the door and moving into the emptied corridor quietly. Immediately, she made for the girl's dressing room. A hallway here, a flight of stairs there, and she was led to the small set of stairs that led to Christine's dressing room. The insignia of La Carlotta's understudy was now replaced with 'Christine Daae'. Knocking lightly, she held the letter at her side and somewhat into her heavy skirt as she awaited the answer at the door.

His mind had been so focused upon the task at hand that he almost forgot to get that key. Just beyond the wall he backtracked to slip the key from the door, ensuring that he didn't end up locking her out, then he stole away into the wall again with a slide of the panel behind him. With the vial and key pocketed, he traveled to the office of the nearby managers first.

Using the same method he had with the Madame's office, he entered theirs to leave the notes in their mail. Then it was Raoul he visited next. It was a good thing that he always checked before entering, for he would have walked right in with that boy lounging in his chair. Though how easy it would have been to simply sneak up behind him and slit his throat. But no, he had promised that he would stop dispassionately killing. But it wouldn't be dispassionate, would it? He'd be quite passionate in the slaughtering of that fop.

He chose a more simple method and slid the note beneath the door, then finally traveled to Carlotta's room. She had the same mirror mechanism within, and instead of entering too far, he settled it upon her dresser, then slid the mirror back into place, just in time too. She came bursting in with her whole crew. Raising a brow he watched them twitter about and shook his head. It was time to go home and get some rest. Then again...maybe he could see what kind of trouble these notes stirred up.

Christine had settled on her chaise, capturing warmth from the heavy fabric of her own cape. She had shed herself of her dirtied robe, exchanging her satin stockings for wool and covering her undergarments with the darkened fabric of a simpleton's skirt and a blouse of chaste cream. A bow of the same color tied the voluptuous curls of chocolate from her cheeks, having been released from the braid and combed of hap hazardous snarls.

Considerable fairness had fled those cheeks, inspiring in her only a further awareness of the slightest sound. She was jolted from her rested position by that faint knocking, and she hesitated a moment to open the door at all. That is, until Madame Giry's voice filtered through the oak surface. "Christine? May I come in?" The bright and yet troubled ingénue stood, her steps measured as she moved for the door.

Clasping the handle, she opened the door to find the Dance Mistress not alone as she had suspected, but Meg as well. The blonde beauty had joined her mother moments before, and the second her crystalline blue eyes rested on her friend, she was immediately a mess of questions and concern. A mess that her mother quickly subdued as she moved into the room, taking Christine by the arms and leading her to again sit.

"Dear child ..." She placed a palm to her brow and cheeks, lowering her to the chaise as Meg fled to her opposite side, sitting with her and taking up her hand in her own. "Christine, your hands are freezing! You're as white as a sheet! Where have you been?"

Christine grew faint, much weaker than before, and somewhat ill at the mere thought. Meg released her hand, looking to her mother in concern as the elder moved to drape the cloak around the girl's shoulders. "Come, you must go home at once. You need rest, child." The two helped her to her feet, leading her from the chilled confines of her dressing room toward the stage door where a coach was sent for.

It was a simple cabby, but it would suffice. The Madame shuffled in her change purse for the fare, drew the hood of Christine's cloak up around her shoulders, and handed up the payment to the cabby. The letter still in hand, she ushered Meg back inside quickly as the carriage pulled away from the curb and headed for the destination the elder had assigned.

Christine took the carriage ride in reflective silence. The chill in the air promised snow in the evening, no doubt. Already the sun looked to fade into the horizon early, and though some daylight remained, the lamps on each mounted support of the leather canvas had been lit. She drew the lapels of her cloak around her tighter, breathing in the air and finding her spirits somewhat rejuvenated for it.

The clammy atmosphere of the Opera was one she longed to flee from, if only for a little while. It seemed ages since she had last seen that faint flicker of hope at the sight of Mama Valerius' boarding home. As the carriage slowed and at last crept to a stop, she climbed out and offered her thanks towards the driver with a faint smile, turning thus to make her way past the overgrown hedge of the property line and towards the front door.

What would she tell her dear Mama? The truth, perhaps? No matter. She made forth into the foyer of the warm home, and the voices that lilted from the parlor served to lighten her anxiety. Dinner had already been served, and no matter .. she had little appetite, though she knew Mama would have her sample this bit of soup or that. _Soup_ .. Silly something as simple as that drew her back to thoughts of Erik, even to the meal he had prepared for her. She shook away the thought and climbed the stairs to her room slowly.


	40. Chapter 40

No food, no sleep. Christine's disappearance had Raoul worried – _beyond _worried. The moment the Opera House opened, he was off upon his steed to the building, so he'd be able to find out if the others might have seen her return sometime during the day, or night. The pristine appearance he had before was all a shamble; unshaven and wearing only his shirt-sleeves, he had pulled on a jacket in haste and it lay haphazardly across his shoulders and over the rest of his form.

Riding the horse into the stable, he barely waited for it to cease moving before he came down from the back of the saddled animal and gestured for the stable hands to take care of it. Wandering through the hallways it was Andre's office that he went to first, but upon knocking and not finding anyone there, he tried Firmin's. Still nothing. Needing to rest, his final journey was made to his own office. Slumping down in his chair he rubbed his face slowly. After all these years, had he lost her again? He dearly hoped not.

He was going to worry himself to death. He was exhausted and starved, but still the Vicomte worried more over his beloved than what his body was aching for. Another slow rub of his face and he glanced over the bare office. He had no plans on being here too long, so he hadn't thought to decorate at all. Parchments here, books there, a chair that needed to be replaced, and a bottle of brandy that was given to him in congratulations on the house's success. He wasn't much of a drinker, especially with hard liquor, but the nerve calming properties of the drink were beginning to look better as minutes passed. Lifting his hand he skimmed his fingers through the dirty blond strands, sifting them behind his ears to rest in some semblance of neatness against his shoulders. Sighing heavily, he considered the door. She wouldn't be in the most obvious place, would she? He hadn't checked her room, yet.

_Yes, yes of course. She had to be in her room. _Straightening out his appearance more, he adjusted his jacket and smoothed his fingers through his hair. Regarding himself in the small hanging mirror, he nodded lightly and moved to the door, only to pause at the slide of something beneath it. A folded parchment. Curiously he walked closer, then lowered to a crouch to pick it up. Though hard, the waxen seal was still slightly warm to the touch.

Pressing up again he opened up the door to glance outside, but finding no one, he frowned deeply. Shutting the door he turned around and broke the seal, unfolding the parchment as he made his way back to his desk, though he never made it. The words upon the paper caused him to pause quickly. "Angel...of music?" Surely this had to be a jest. Turning over the parchment he regarded the seal, then folded it closed slowly.

Returning to his desk Raoul rested back, tossing the letter upon the wooden top. With its malevolent message and childlike script covered, he was faced with the empty sockets of the red skull staring back at him; _mockingly_, he thought. Sliding the letter from the table he opened it up once more, giving it a read over. _No longer able to see her?_ "We'll just see about this," he mumbled to himself and pressed up from his seat to start out the door.

Entering his office with a deep scowl Firmin slapped the paper upon the desk and began massaging the bridge of his nose, muttering to himself. "Suspecting foul play. What...idiots." Two sopranos become missing and automatically there's foul play going on. "I could do without the unending trials. Missing cast members, things falling from the sky, tales of specters."

_Oh but the publicity!_

Firmin was willing to bet that once the gossiping gaggle of Parisians spread the word of the Opera House's happenings, the 'scandal' would, indeed, bring the patrons by the scores. There was little need for anything else, or so he'd like to believe.

Firmin wasn't the only one who was irritable about the whole news article. Andre, in his impatience with opening the doors the proper way, shoved it so hard the handle smacked the wall sharply, and reaching back he closed it hard, and with a scowl he gave a wave to the paper in his hand.

"Damnable! Have you seen this? Have you? Good God, we're going to lose it all. People are going to see this, and they're going to walk out, or not even come to the opera house." Tossing the paper upon the table he flopped down in his seat heavily and sighed, rubbing his temples. "This is absolutely damnable. Something told me that this place was going to be the death of me. Well, my friend, I'm beginning to believe it!"

_Yelling?_ Now this was interesting. _Wonder what got the managers in such a tiff_? Erik questioned with a bit of a knowing smirk as he situated himself behind the thin wall that separated him from the speaking duo. Leaning back against a pillar, he wrapped the cloak around himself as half lidded eyes of dulled gold rested upon the wall. He couldn't see them, but could imagine their expressions.

"Andre, please. Stop yelling. I already have a headache." Lowering his hand from his nose he began shuffling through his mail, and opened up one from the bank to idly read over. "You haven't seen the queue, have you? There are others than just Mademoiselle Daae an–...Hmm." The flash of red caught his attention and he picked up the note, only to find another one just beneath it. "Hmm, looks like you have one too." Stepping over to the chair he handed it over, then frowned as he looked upon the seal. "They always say that the red skull is a bad omen. Read yours first." He gave him a sheepish grin and turned his note between his hands.

And so it was that the two leading sopranos of the Opera each had their brush with the elusive Phantom; Christine in every sense of the word, and La Carlotta? Just down the hallway...: "...days at the Opera..._numbered?" _She read on, "..._CHRISTINE DAAE!_"

Needless to say, the arrogant and overstuffed Prima Donna had received her letter. The skeleton seal had been broken, the foreboding symbol disregarded for some letter of certain adoration. No sooner had the young..._toad's_ name been released in that shrill cry, then she stood immediately, slapping away the fond and doting hands of her wig mistress and dresser, shoving past Ubaldo who, pausing from his 'snack break' – the fourth since brunch – wobbled forward to inspect the scene. Carlotta waved the red inked note wildly about, screaming curses in her native tongue.

Sending his partner a rather exasperated look Andre took hold of the note, and cracked the seal. "You are far too superstitious for your own good."

"It's superstition that's kept me alive all this time." Firmin gave a weak chuckle, something that died away when Andre shook his head and began reading the red stained letter aloud.

"'Dear Andre, what a delightfully charming production. Christine enjoyed a great success...' Oh great, one of _those. _'...I can assure you that none of us were bereft when the glorious...' I can almost hear the sarcasm in that one. '...Carlotta left. Other wise, while the chorus was entrancing and in tune for once, the dancing was an utterly lamentable mess." Well, at least Firmin could agree on the dancing part. They seemed distracted if not completely off beat.

His lips pressed thin and Andre glanced over toward his partner. "I'm guessing that yours is signed 'O.G.' as well?" Closing the parchment he carelessly dropped it to his lap and proceeded to return to the slow kneading of his temples. He was going to be grayer by time the day was finished.

Breaking the seal upon his own letter he turned it right side up and began to read out loud as well. "'Dear Firmin, this is but a reminder; You have yet to pay my salary.'" He sighed faintly, glancing toward Andre, shaking his own head. "The salary thing again.. 'Twenty thousand francs if you recall. Simply send it care of 'the ghost' by return of post. P.T.O." Pausing, he flipped over the paper to read the last portion. Even as he did so he scowled venomously. "'No one likes a debtor, so it would be in your best interest if my orders are followed.' Yes, it says O.G. at the bottom."

Tapping the note against his other hand he laid it gently upon the desk then snapped at once. "Opera Ghost, of course. I do believe they're taking this joke much too far. This is really not amusing. Rather annoying if you ask me. 'My salary has not been paid,' indeed." Another scowl and he settled upon the edge of the desk, his arms crossed indignantly over his chest. Behind the wall a slow brow was lifted. Erik expected this type of reaction, but did have some hope that they would heed his warnings, though he was beginning to understand that they were, indeed, going to be difficult.

"You do realize that he's trying to abuse our position. Taking all for granted. It is sort of funny, though. Notes 'mysteriously' appearing, things falling that could easily be blamed upon the stage hands." The man who was frantic just moments ago was now calm. He brushed off a jacket sleeve and sighed heavily. "He's especially insane if he expects a large retain–..." Words cut off by the door slamming open again he finished them with an exhale of breath. "...–er. Raoul, something wrong?"

Raising one bushy brow he regarded the younger man who spun on the two of them, eyeing them harshly. He had come to a conclusion, they wanted him to stay away from the woman so they wouldn't have to worry about scandalous headings. "Where is she? I demand to know where Christine is now, this instant! I don't need your little notes to demand anything of me!" Said note was held in a tight grasp, being waved back and forth quickly. Raoul normally had an even temper, but after this, after her disappearance, it was a short fuse.

"What the..?" Quirking a brow at Raoul's ranting Firmin glanced over toward Andre, then sighed heavily. That's it, he was going back to drinking. Heading over to the cabinet with Andre's rum, he fetched himself a glass and the tall bottle within. Unscrewing the top he poured himself half a shot and walked back over to the desk, grumbling beneath his breath. "We didn't send you any notes, Vicomte. We received our own notes." Picking up the one that was addressed to him, he showed him the seal that was undoubtedly the same.

Raising the glass he mumbled against the glass faintly. "Wonderful; fop with a temper." While the others couldn't hear the mutter, the bat-eared Phantom did, and his shoulders shook as he held in his laughter.

Drinking down the shot Firmin coughed a bit then went over to snag the note right out of the man's hands. Another lean against the desk and he rubbed a temple with his fingers while opening it up. "'Do not fear for Miss Daae. The Angel of Music has her under his wing. Make _no_ attempt to see her again.'" That was it? He frowned deeply and flipped it over to look upon the back, but there was nothing more. "I know we didn't write it. No initials on this one but... Just what _joker _is supposed to be this 'Opera Ghost?' It's gone too far." Raoul only frowned faintly, giving a shake of his head.

While this scene in the manager's office had unfolded quite calmly, Carlotta had all but frightened the living daylights out of her entourage. She had gone so far as to throw several shoes and powder puffs at Ubaldo, who in vain tried to sooth her.

For all of her pompous airs and the strife she caused others, Carlotta was really sort of wise in her presumptions. She countered that the Vicomte de Changy was behind this, and _why not? _Had he not, or according to the rumor mill anyway, lavished the _chorus girl_ with roses upon her triumph? A triumph that Carlotta looked to crush in the magnitude of her upcoming performance in _Il Muto, _only to find that the dream had been dampened by this note? Did it not clearly state that _she _would play the page boy, the silent role?

"NO! I will _NOT _stand by and watch this...this child corrupt _my _stage!" Flinging the double doors of her dressing room open, she stormed down the hall, a blur of magenta gown and bustling devotees. "_FIRMIN! ANDRE! _" The doors reached, her entrance was as in nature of the Vicomte's, the door knob denting the wall in it's brute force, swinging open to allow her passage, though in it's force swinging back to catch Piangi right in the face. He landed with a solid _thud_.

"Where is he! Your precious patron?", she screeched.

The young man, Raoul, nearly jumped out of his skin when the door went swinging open, striking just an inch off to his left. Andre sighed and picked himself up out of the chair to go over to where Firmin was standing. Taking that shot glass he poured himself some of the brandy as well and drank it swiftly.

Coughing he motioned to the wide eyed Raoul who then scowled after a moment. "What is it now," he snapped, this woman always had something wrong with her. Andre looked curiously at the door as muffled curses of thick Italian came from behind it. Side glancing to his partner, he poured himself another shot.

"Lord in heaven. Rampaging diva," this time both the hidden one and Andre would hear it as Firmin mumbled. With the glass and bottle handed over, he crossed his arms over his chest. One lifted to knead along the bridge of his nose. "Welcome back, La Carlotta. As for the patron, you nearly caused his homicide with the door."

Andre beat him to the bottle, and chuckling deeply he shook his head slowly. This day was becoming more and more interesting as it drew on. This was the chaos that Erik enjoyed causing. The whole thing was played within his mind as one person after the other piled into the room. At first he believed that the meaty thud was from Carlotta hitting the Vicomte, but when he heard the cursing in the thick brogue, he knew it had to be Ubaldo. _Shame._ He would have loved to see the boy's pretty nose become crooked. Adjusting his weight, the thickness of cape's hem slithered silently against the ground before it was drawn up again to wrap around his body.

The prima donna was _seething_. So much so that she had half a mind to snatch that filthy liquor bottle from their hands and beat it over their heads. But self restraint was next to cleanliness for Carlotta, and she approached the boy, bristling as she held the crumbled letter out within her fist.

"I have your letter! A letter which I rather _resent!_" Spoiled little Vicomte, bedding the chorus girl! Of course! It was all so clear now! It was all a setup to keep her from the Opera, as to glorify the brazen little harlot and her companion! She gave a frustrated grunt, moving in one swift movement towards the chairs that faced the pair; Firmin and Andre.

She plopped herself down indignantly, a slender bejeweled hand lifting to sooth each intricately curled strand of dyed auburn into place, a pout set into her. She gave a sidelong glance to that red ink again, growling a slew of curse words beneath her breath as she tossed it aside in a tantrum.

_"My_ letter?" Raoul blinked, staring at the woman.

"Well," Andre began, raising a brow. "Did you send it to her? Is it your writing?"

Raoul gawked in indignation. He was being accused of what he just accused them of! "Of _course_ not!" Following the temperamental diva over to her chair he picked up the tossed aside letter and unfolded the edges to read it quietly. Impatient with wanting to know what it stated, Andre cleared his throat.

With a sigh, the young man read it aloud: "'Your days at the Opera are numbered. And this is beyond the consideration that your voice is more befitting upon a street corner. Christine Daae will be singing as Elissa on your behalf tonight, regardless of your return. I suggest you heed these words, or prepare for a great misfortune should you dare to attempt to take her place.'" After drinking down that second shot and eyeing the diva warily, Andre glanced over toward Raoul and shook his head gently.

This was getting _redundant_.

Firmin tapped his fingers slowly against his arm, thinking. Now that they had Christine as an Elissa, it would be awkward to have Carlotta take over now. But for the next production, that would be a different story. Christine was a good singer, but Carlotta was a famous name. "In my opinion we have far, far too many notes. Should I be surprised that most of them are about Christine?"

A suspicious glance was cast over toward Raoul and the manager pressed his lips thin with a grumble. "I swear, if I hear Miss Daae's name one more time... I will have a nervous break down." Lifting his hand he pressed his index and middle finger's pad against a temple and began slowly kneading along the portion of flesh, trying to get rid of the headache that was trying hard to creep up on him.

"Miss Daae has returned," they heard the voice of Madame Giry.

The poor man spoke too soon, and sighing he yanked the bottle from Andre again who chuckled. Madame Giry and her daughter stood in the doorway, having arrived from putting Christine in the coach several minutes prior. The dance mistress moved into the room first, eyeing each occupant with mild interest. The letter was now clutched between two hands, as she took immediate note of whose feathers were rustled from the missives they had received.

Little Meg stood behind her mother, intimidated by the authority in the room but reminded herself that she was, after all, Christine's best friend. Had she not as much right to be here as Piangi had? The fattened tenor was shuffling about idly, inspecting the various shelves and making himself as invisible as possible; a skill he had perfected in the company of Carlotta.

Andre turned his attention to the Madame Giry with a tight smile. "Where is she now, precisely?" Raoul was the first one to get up and go over to the woman, eyes once a dulled blue now glimmering brilliant now that he knew she was found and fine.

"Yes, where is she, can I see her?" Poor boy. Found the woman of his life and ended up losing her within the same night, after hearing some man's voice in her room! What would he say when he was near her again? He didn't want to blast a bunch of accusations at her, not when they had found each other again. He looked over to Carlotta then the managers, believing that bottle was looking mighty good by now.

Pouring himself another glassful of liquor, Firmin grunted heavily and murmured against the rim. "I wager a guess that her midnight oil's been burned." He paused a moment, glancing over the strapping lad. "Ten times over." Smirking softly he drank the alcohol, unaware of the silent snarl that had crossed the lips of the one in the wall.

How _dare_ that pompous fool even _think_ that Christine _ever_ do something like _that _with that...that..._boy_! Curling his fingers tightly he kneaded his jaw slowly, then exhaled a breath. It wouldn't do well to let his temper flare up, not when he didn't have an outlet. When he returned to his lair then it'd be a different story. He had his music, his painting. If a look could kill, that whole office would have been burned down, and Firmin would be nothing but a pile of smoking soot.

The Madame wasn't so ignorant of the murmur as well, and it inspired glare to be shot in his direction, a defense for the virtuous and pure-hearted child. However, she spoke not of it but sent her reply directly to Raoul: "I sent her home, Monsieur..."

Meg interjected for her mother, though unknowingly added flame to a fire Firmin had built in suspicion of her friend's whereabouts and where-with-alls; "She needed rest." She quieted when La Carlotta gave an airy laugh of self-satisfaction from her place in the chair. The Madame put a hand out to further Meg's remarks, already terse by the former and preparing herself for it's proverbial slap. Her gaze passed between the two managers, the young Viscount, and finally towards the poised frame of La Carlotta, where it rested in momentary scorn before it softened upon Raoul.

Sighing heavily he lifted his hand and pressed it through his hair, the strands shifting back over his ears to rest securely. Finally noticing the note clutched between her hands he frowned deeply and glanced over to the duo of managers. "Another note?" He was hoping that it wasn't. It sounded as if there had been enough notes passed around for the day, and he was seriously beginning to tire of it.

He stepped closer to her, his hand held out after it was drawn from the silken strands. "May I see it?" Andre muttered, taking the bottle back from Firmin before heading off to his former seat, and casually scooted it closer to Carlotta's, most likely to the disapproval of the lurking Piangi.

"Ugh!" Once the bottle and glass were gone, Firmin slid off of the table, nudging past the Vicomte to snatch the letter away from the woman. His patience was growing inexorably thin, and cracking open the seal sharply he tossed the bits of red to the desk then opened up the letter itself.


	41. Chapter 41

After the Madame surrendered the note, each occupant of the room listened anxiously, all upon bated breaths as Firmin read. Meg clutched at her mothers skirts, and even Giry herself tersely applied pressure to the brass knob of her cane."'Gentlemen, in my most amiable nature I've sent you several notes.' Amiable?" Pausing he grunted again and continued, focusing more upon the notes contents. "'I have detailed how my? theater is to run.'_ His_, indeed. 'My instructions have thus far not been followed. One last chance is offered. I have returned Christine Daae to you in all anxiousness that her career should progress. Understand and duly note the queue I have for the production of the up-and-coming '_Il Muto._'"

Another pause and he glanced quizzically toward Andre and Madame Giry. "How does he know about that? We just found out ourselves." Frowning, Firmin continued reading. "'In the need of charm an appeal, something Carlotta immensely lacks, Miss Daae will play the Countess. Considering how grateful my ears will be, and I'm sure many others, Carlotta will play the part as the pageboy. The mute. I do hope you agree with my observation. As per usual, I shall watch the performance from Box Five. The one I have instructed to be kept empty.'"

He thought over the boxes and their position, that one was the best. They'd be losing a considerable amount of money. He scowled at the last part, his voice harsher. "Should you ignore these commands, I assure you a disaster beyond your imagination will occur. I remain, Gentlemen, Your obedient servant, O.G.'" Then there was silence as the paper was folded slowly. He didn't like that threat, at all.

La Carlotta, naturally, was first to break that heavy silence. She leapt to her feet, her flailing limbs nearly catching Andre's shot glass in her flight. "My GOD, don't you all see! Christine!_" _She behaved as if she were possessed; her arms flying about angrily as she growled and grunted slews of indistinguishable Italian. In this foreign tongue she pointed her accusing finger at the boy, approaching him from around the chairs with scorn and contempt in her eyes. "This is all a ploy to help that _little toad_!"

She approached Firmin swiftly, snatching the note from his hands with a snarl of distaste as she held it up for all to see. The gentleman blinked, then sighed deeply and picked up the bottle to drink directly from it. "It is clear as day who sent this! The Vicomte, her _lover_!_" _She turned to the boy, her expression caught between erratic laughter and vengeful anger. "_Me_! Care you tell me why I received a note too? Or _why_ I have been searching for her _myself_?" Raoul glanced over toward the managers, sweeping a pointed finger in Carlotta's direction. "Can you _believe_ this?" If he wasn't shocked before he was now! "That woman is _mad_!"

Like a caged animal, Carlotta then turned to the managers, snarling. "And _you two!" _Unable to continue, she threw her hands up The note went with them before gravity drew it to the carpeted floor. "_O, traditori_!"

Andre was quick to go over to the woman's side, ignoring the note that fluttered to the ground. "Signora! I swear to you that this is all a jest, it has to be. It changes nothing. Don't you see? _You_ are our star! Your our greatest, most illustrious diva!" He cast a glance toward Firmin as if to say 'grovel, damn you' and the manager responded by lifting a dubious brow. Raoul only stared, then turned to Madame Giry. "Please, please Madame, I must see her. Where is she? What is the address to her home?"

Sighing faintly Firmin lifted a hand to his brow, muttering to himself. "This is insane.." But complying, all for the money undoubtedly, he approached Carlotta with a wide smile upon his lips. "Yes, yes. You are our diva and will always be. We won't take orders. It will be Miss Daae who plays the silent role as the pageboy. You, you my dear, you will play the Countess. The lead! We implore you don't take these silly little notes as serious."

_Silly little notes, hm? _Erik thought, narrowing his eyes slowly. _We'll just see how _silly _they are. _Pressing away from the pillar he began stalking behind the wall slowly, his eyes still upon the bare panels before him. Oh how he wanted to go through and startle the hell out of them, maybe strangling one or two. That wouldn't go too well, though. Killing managers wasn't the wisest thing to do if he wanted to keep the establishment open.

Carlotta's manner was melodramatic as she threw herself into the arms of her awaiting Piangi, barking out through faux tears her heartbreak. "Oh, you two _SHUT UP! _You're only saying this to please me!" She gave a great sob, burying her face into Piangi's shoulder as she moaned forth her lament. _"Signori, e vero? Non, non, non voglio udire! _You have reviled me! Rebuked me for that child!"

While this chaotic scene ensued, Madame Giry found herself addressed by the desperation of the boy. She took a breath, shaking her head slightly. "She will see no one, Monsieur." A sharp pinch to her bicep drew her gaze towards Meg, whose uplifted brows proved to be the device needed to melt her icy resolve. And though she knew she mustn't, perhaps it was in her kindness to take pity on the two parted friends. She took his arm gently, leading him to the doorway of the office. Meg followed close behind, anxious to hear. "Madame Valerius' Room and Board. It is but a block from here." Her voice was low.

"Signora, pardon us. We beseech you! Sing for us! Your public needs you. Please signora!" He was glad to be lured away from the trio, because he knew he'd end up going deaf from Carlotta's screeching, if not the tail kissing that the other two were doing. It disgusted him, really. Is that all Christine was to them? Money? Would they do the same if it was Christine pitching a fit and Carlotta was somehow other wise occupied? Raoul sighed gently, forcing a smile to his lips before he remembered the letter. _Angel of Music..._ "Christine...she spoke of an angel," he stated half to himself and half to the older woman before him. His brows came together as he began to put thought into this puzzle.

"You're our star! No others can hold your position Signora! Yes, yes, your public needs you and we need you to." Money, money, _money_. Carlotta brought in the audience and in turn, they brought their money. It was a shame that Erik couldn't hear the Madame give away Christine's address. He was too focused upon the chaos that was going on anyway. Carlotta giving a blubbering fit that she most likely practiced in front of a mirror, and the two managers trying all they could to get her to change her mind about a decision she didn't even make. _Carlotta, quit the opera? _That would be as likely as him walking out in noon without a mask and in his skivvies. He shook his head faintly, both in amusement and disappointment. No one should have their head so inflated, and they were doing nothing but inflating it more. She was going to need a rope around her waist with horses at the end and plenty of butter to get her swelled pride out of that doorway.

"Ugh! Would you not rather have your _precious _little ingenue?_" _Bitter distaste was held high in her remarks as she had seemingly calmed, her companion leading her to her chair once more. The state with Carlotta was simple; tell her you loved and adored her; that NO ONE could replace her, and she was yours. That fact was obvious in her exaggerated pout, and her heavy sighs. It was a sickening display. Andre was very nearly upon his knees, pleading with the woman. "Think of your audience!"

Meanwhile, Madame Giry nodded to Raoul's remark, glancing out into the corridor before she spoke; "Yes, she has heard the voice of the Angel of Music, Monsieur." Raoul did his best to ignore the brown nosing going on within the room, and glancing to Meg he then turned his head to take a glimpse of one of the nearby letters, one he pointed at with a look back to Madame Giry. "Oh, I understand now. Is this her angel then? Her Angel – a mad man! – who dares to give out orders, warnings. His demands are insane!" He set his jaw firmly, then released a heavy breath. "You realize these demands must be rejected. We cannot continue having him think that he can do these...things."

Taking that cue from Raoul's outburst, Firmin kicked in, twisting the young man's words slightly. "Insane demands indeed! Your devotees are imploring you on their knees that you ignore these warnings. They occur regularly, I assure you." Grumbling faintly he leaned to Andre, murmuring quickly within his ear. "Seems she's an over-actress off stage too. Must divas be such a trial and troublesome?" Then he returned to the pleas. "Think of how they all will adore you! Think of the triumph!" _Think of how much money you can bring in! _Firmin grinned broadly but kept that part out of his little speech.

This...was _really_...beginning to give Erik a headache. Now he knew how the two managers felt. Just outside the line of mask slender fingers rubbed slowly, then he realized that he wasn't able to hear Raoul, Madame Giry and Meg anymore. Raising a brow he stepped closer to the panel and listened. No, only those four – Carlotta, Andre, Firmin and Piangi – could be seen. Had the others left?

With each passing word, Carlotta began to perk up immensely. "_Si_, I took a snub, but my public needs me. Oh, Andre .. Firmin .. think of how I'll shine in that final encore!" She beamed in self inflation now, touching each of their cheeks as a Queen would her courtiers. _"O, fortunata! Non ancor abbadonata!" _Their praise was just the boost she needed to her already over sized ego, and standing she leant over each kneeling man and pressed her heavily rouged lips to their cheeks. "_The_ Prima Donna once more!" She clapped her hands and squealed in glee, bouncing about and tossling the barrel of her auburn curls and the even the voluminousness of her feminine endowments. Which were eye level with the pair, of course. And did they ever love that sight. Andre nudged Firmin between the ribs with a clearing of his throat, and grinned broadly to the woman – or, to be realistic grinned broadly to her assets that were so cleverly displayed. "Those who'll hear your voice will liken you to the greatest of angels, _Signora_." Keep inflating, she was taking their groveling quite well. He leaned to his partner again. "It looks as if we get our opera after all."

_What a scene! _A scene that the Madame observed now in fear, her words low and kept to the pair as she spoke; "They only invite damnation. Please, _think _before these demands are rejected, Monsieur!" Her last remark was sent to the Vicomte, her voice pleading as Meg reflected to herself, aside; "Bliss or damnation. One has overtaken poor Christine, and I can't decide which."

Tiredly the Vicomte swept back hair from his face and he shook his head. "No, Madame. Do you not understand? Christine must be protected, and this...bedlamite has stolen her away from me. Beneath his wing, by his own words. These notes, his 'haunting' of this place." He paused, narrowing his eyes. "Her Angel of the Music is one in the same with this Opera Ghost. Nothing but a man who enjoys playing games." He grunted, shaking his head before eyeing her as if she was the one that started it all. "His game will end, tonight. And I swear to you that a new one will begin, within his own box, no less!"

The lurking Opera Ghost shook his head softly. _A shame. First the Vicomte says something intelligent by putting two and two together, then he shoves his foot in his mouth again._ Some of the boy's voice was over heard, only when he chose to raise it above the smooching the other two were doing to the divas powdered behind. "She gets her limelight," Firmin agreed, grinning with a slow nod, his eyes obviously occupied elsewhere. Oh his wife would pitch a fit. It was that thought alone that had him break away and drag Andre along side once out of their lowered positions.

"Imagine, if all of this was an opera. The patron and a chorus girl, entwined. He might act ignorant, but you and I both know that he had to have been with her. After all, was he not gone for the whole evening? We should have known this was going to happen. The diva being an 'understudy' to a simple chorus girl? I think not. She'll remain in the last showings of _Hannibal,_ but when_ Il Muto _comes.." Trailing off he grinned again and turned to the woman who was preening and strutting about like a peacock. "Sing as prima donna for us once more, Signora. Light up the stage."

A heavy, dark scowl rested across Erik's lips. _So be it. They wish war, they will get war. I can do so much worse than dropping beams and tossed shadows. _Irritable, he curled the cloak around him again and moving away from the panel, he headed off, making his path swift toward the inviting depths of the underground caverns.

Piangi took Carlotta in his arms, waltzing her about as they praised her endlessly. She was aglow with this new adoration; her return to Opera at last! Granted, if only she had been gone a day. _"_Oh, the trials of my position! Sneezes, coughs, colds. But no matter, my loves!_"_ She moved from her companion to the two once more, beaming that Cheshire cat grin all the while; "Aching chords will still hit the highest note, and I shall give you the perfect opera!_"_ She threw her arms around them, ecstatic with laughter as the other trio's spirits took a turn for the worse. Madame Giry was hushed but frantic, her arm placed the young Vicomte's shoulder as she pleaded: "No, no Monsieur. This is a game you can not hope to win! Please, for Christine's sake!"

Andre sent Firmin a triumphant glance and returning the semi-awkward embrace he grinned widely, laughing low. The on-goings within the office was no longer of his concern. Raouls mind was elsewhere at the time; upon the well being of his Christine. He glanced to her and shook his head with a grim look. "I am thinking of Christine's sake. This...'ghost' will surely drive the lot of us mad. If you do not mind, Madame, I have a visit to make." Shrugging off the arm and any other argument, he traveled down the hallway in long strides, determined to make it to the stables and to his horse without any further interruptions. He might look as if he had been ran over and backed-up upon, but he was more than willing to see Christine within this state. Out within the stable his horse was prepared for his departure, which came soon after.

It was a good thing that it wasn't known the Vicomte was making way to his lady love, other wise he would have found a lasso around his throat the moment the horse breached the stables. Firmin was also giddy with the idea that they talked her out of quitting, something that would have been virtually impossible. Erik continued hearing their little comments, little snide remarks of it being a joke. Of _him _being a _joke_. Of him being a _madman. _They wanted mad? They would get it. He already had the night planned out just in case they decided to go against his words. Falling backdrops were nothing compared to what he could do. They'll learn, and they'll learn fast. Never, ever, cross the Phantom. Accidents happened and they have been. Rather harmless. But that could change. _Swiftly_.

With all of this glorified brown nosing going on, how could anyone concentrate! Madame Giry urged her form forward, caution and fear in her eyes as she pleaded with the man. Pleaded in vain, for no sooner had her warning reached the proximity of the trio had he darted quickly off down the hall, in pursuit of his Christine. The muscles within her neck constricted as she gulped a shout of ill fate, her eyes turning instead to Meg. The child stood quivering, as delicate as a lily and just as frail, in the doorway. "Come along, Meg." She cast a once over towards the occupants within before she turned and ushered her child from the doorway, down into the corridor opposite the direction with which the Vicomte had fled.

How she feared of these consequences! With La Carlotta replacing Christine who, as the O.G. had _specifically_ demanded, would again play Elissa, an assured disaster would occur. Had he note written that himself? Was their deliberate jest in his tone! Laughable! The Madame wrung her hands as she darted through the hallways, rounded up the arriving chorus girls and feigning her concern with the bark of her demands; "To the barre, girls!" The girls needed work, and without Christine to shine on the stage as their beacon of inspiration to aspire, the audience would more so be watching. It was better than watching Carlotta.

Speaking of the diva; _"_Ubaldo, come! This prima donna has work to do!" was her final remarks to the duo who had assured her the role of the Countess in the forthcoming _Il Muto. _And if she couldn't shine in _Hanibal, _she would begin her work early to ensure that all of Paris would _never_ forget her approaching triumph.

When the woman left Andre cast Firmin a glance then gave a slow exhale. Pressing to a stand and heading over to where the bottle was laid down, he picked it up and slowly poured himself another refill. "This is _seriously _doing nothing for my nerves. Nothing at all." Sitting upon the edge of his desk he scratched through the hair at his temple, then picked up the glass to drink from.

"Now you sound like me." Laughing richly he picked himself up as well and went about collecting notes and papers that might have been tossed around during the divas tantrum, something they were beginning to be used to. A good thing, she threw one at least once a day. Tapping the notes upon the desk to straighten them out, he glanced upon the seal and chuckled, trying to cover up his discomfort. There had been mention of problems within the opera house for years, things gone missing, broken or phantom sounds. Part of him wanted to believe these tales, though the more sensible part believed them to be all a farce. Only time would tell just what might happen when their 'obedient friend' decides to get angry.

It was a good thing that they wouldn't be able to hear the music that was to come from the lair. Angry and vicious, Erik released his frustrations in the only productive manner he knew as he brooded, and planned.

Upon the Parsian streets, thumping his heels into the sides of the horse to get to galloping faster, Raoul gave a sharp pull upon the reins, bringing the poor animal to grunt and partly rear with a rough shake of his head. Soothingly patting his neck he glanced down one street, then another, gathering his bearings before continuing on. The building was within sight, and he did all he could to refrain kicking the horse into a faster pace.


	42. Chapter 42

Christine had bathed after her arrival home, and though it was a short time she spent in desperately needed reflection in those lukewarm waters – the other tenants grew impatient – it proved to lighten her spirits considerably. In the warmth of the home, she felt safe guarded from the chill that had crept into her very soul from the night before; a chill that both frightened and enticed her.

She sat now at Mama Valerius' side. The old woman was sitting up in bed knitting while her younger companion – a child she considered her own – was gazing idly out the window. Her return to the surface had done her appearance some good. The bluish rings around her eyes had faded, but the color in her usually vibrant cheeks and lips had yet to return, a flaw she made little attempt to conceal.

The morning sun streamed through the lace curtains onto her thickened curls, casting an ironic halo of light upon her crown. Her dress was a deep green, the same color as the enchanted forest that had filled her childhood and this hue served to further accentuate her pallor.

No sooner had Raoul approached the gates, did he slide from the back of the horse. Pulling the reins over the animal's head he lured it closer to the gate and wrapped the reins around a portion of bar. Giving them a tug to ensure that they wouldn't come loose, he passed between the opened wrought iron and made a quick approach to the door.

In his haste he began to believe he was being just a little bit silly. The Madame said that she was at home, and she needed rest, so where else would Christine go? He asked the same question before she had disappeared from her dressing room. Pausing before the door he brushed hair back behind his ears and released a slow breath. Raising a hand he knocked upon the door firmly and waited.

Only a minute or so had passed before he shifted on his feet restlessly. _Knock again, don't knock again? Feels like I'm fourteen asking to visit for a few hours. _This light-hearted thought brought a bit of tense laughter to his throat, and he smiled to himself, shaking his head softly.

The knock from below disturbed the elder's knitting, and as her slender fingers hesitated in their work the clear blue eyes that seemed the only remaining factor from her younger days lifted toward the silent child in question. However, Christine was already on her feet and obliging Mama's unspoken request.

The two shared a smile as the troubled youth moved swiftly from the room, out into the corridor and down the stairs into the foyer. Ever the portrait of a simple and charming girl, this 'little Lotte' remained ever affectionate and obedient to her darling Mama Valerius. Even in such a mundane task as hosting in place of the home's matron, she was ever mindful of the woman's generosity and unfaltering support, even in the vestige of mystery regarding her 'Angel of Music.

Her full skirt gathered around her ankles as she moved swiftly over the oriental rug of the foyer toward the door. With the brass knob clutched in hand, she drew back the heavy oak door to find not a stranger, but rather ... Raoul. Of all the times she so desperately needed him, now was one. His timing was impeccable, truly!

Fingers curled again, readying to rap against the door until he heard the knob jitter. Lowering his arm he waited upon a held breath, which was expelled in a soft "Christine..." as she made herself visible. All of the tension that had been in his shoulders and back from the recent happenings drifted away and he stepped close to her to take her within a warm embrace.

"You disappeared on me last night. You had me so worried." Inching back a bit he looked her over carefully. "Might I come in? It is terribly cold out here, and I'm afraid that I fetched the wrong jacket." He gave her a sheepish, and rather boyish grin.

She too released a breath that seemed to have been held in her over his regard since the moment he had left her, her form willingly sinking into his embrace. The embrace was much too short lived, much too lacking in...passion. Christine inwardly kicked herself, and as he drew away, she feigned a smile in response to his charming grin.

"Yes, please. Come in." She stepped aside, allowing him entrance as she closed the door behind them. The foyer was certainly not a place to entertain a guest, even one as familiar as Raoul. Christine could not help but find herself fixated on observing him. They had been so young when last they had seen each other. A span of years to compensate for, and though his height and his countenance had broadened, she was consoled to find that those chiseled lips could still muster the strength of a sheepish grin, so similar to the one he had donned the day he rescued her scarf.

She stood without apparent emotion, but her eyes deceived her. The lovely hazel depths exposed the melancholy within her spirit, and from there spread like a wildfire of pent up emotion over her soft features. _That face, Erik's face_, was just as tangible to her now as Raoul was before her.

Stepping inside with little hesitation, he rubbed his hands against the arms of his thin jacket and turned to look over his surroundings. They weren't terrible, but they weren't the best either. She deserved much better than this, a boarding house. Frowning gently at that thought he turned to her, his visage softening as another smile spread across his lips.

Lifting his hand and cupping her cheek lightly, the other followed to conceal the bare cheek with its light chill and she gave a blanch that he didn't notice; she was all too reminded of the cold that was consuming and present in her soul. The sadness of the world rested within that dreary eternal night, and in those amber eyes. Eyes so unlike Raoul's, their threatening and adoring depths a direct contrast to the pair that gazed into her own now.

Pressing a tender kiss to her brow he eased into another embrace, this one much longer than those in her dressing room or at the door. The kiss to her brow drew an unwanted sigh from her throat; so many feelings surfaced with such a simple gesture. Feelings that furthered the complexity of the present situation. Into his arms she was taken again, her own arms growing pliant to his touch and lifting to hold him gently against her by way of the fabric of his coat.

He was cold from the journey here no doubt, and with an ironic resolve she longed for nothing more than to warm him, conjure in him some living heat even if she herself was denied it. But the case was a simple one. It was wrong for him to be here at all. She _promised _Erik – she would not let her childhood friend, _love_, interfere with her music. She could not have her Music and her Vicomte simultaneously.

So many questions, and he had no clue where he wanted to start. He wondered if he should mention the notes, this 'Angel' she had spoken of, the mad man he truly was. No, he wasn't going to break the bliss of this moment. "I've missed you _so_ much," he whispered gently, his voice almost lost in the depths of her curls.

After a long moment of silence that preceded his hushed remark, she drew her shoulders back, leaving her still within his embrace but now free to observe his face. "I had a feeling you would find me again."

Reluctant to let her go, he was appeased that she only drew back enough to look up at him. The smile returned to his lips while brilliantly blue eyes trailed over her face slowly. "I have waited years to find you, Christine. I'm not going to lose you again so easily." Lifting a hand he brushed some of her hair back, pressing it over her shoulder. A bit warmer now, his fingers dusted a touch against her cheek. The Madame didn't say that she looked sickly.

"Are you...all right? Something troubles you." Standing still in the foyer, he didn't seem to notice. He was far too focused upon her at the time. "Should we sit and speak? Or maybe...well, it's a bit early for dinner, how about breakfast? We have so much to catch up on."

How easily he could smile and seemingly forget all that troubled him! She so longed for that gift, and would have again surrendered her tiny frame to his embrace had his words not stirred her from the notion. She leaned her cheek into that gentle caress fondly, drawing from its warmth the assurance of her safety. _Do you really want to be safe, Christine Daae?_ No matter the thought; she hadn't time to respond to its rather intrusive arrival.

He remarked on her health, and with it came the mental image of how she more than likely appeared. Death's lovely paramour; Persephone returned if only for a little while to the world she once knew, before venturing down again to bring with her the light absorbed from the surface to shed upon Hades. Persephone, who tried her hardest to divide herself between both, only to find that it was in moments such as these, no matter how tender, that the decision must be made.

Her heavy eyes grew wide, almost frantic as she lowered her voice, terrified that at the exact moment she uttered the words...oh, heaven knows what would have happened! "Raoul, I've seen the Angel of Music."

Any and all calm that had settled shattered with those very words, and his manner grew grim. "Lets not speak of it at this time. You shouldn't worry of such things. Come, let us sit where it is warm." Brushing his thumb against her skin he tucked a coiled strand behind the shelf of her ear, then loosened his hold from her. With his hand still against her lower back, he turned to glance to one door then another.

He didn't know how this building was set up, and he didn't want to assume, only to look like a fool by walking into the kitchen, or some such. While he wanted to learn of this 'Angel of Music' he didn't want to completely ruin his time with her by having them both think of this man. "I would like to know how everything has gone for you before I bore you with my tales of living upon the sea."

'No, Raoul...listen to me...I've _seen _him. That night you came for me. God, it seems ages ago, doesn't it? He came for me when you left, and his voice..." She broke off, too frantic and too enthralled by the thought alone to continue immediately. Oh, how she wanted him to understand! And yet how she yearned to be within the vocal embrace of her Erik once more. _The light and the dark._ But it struck Christine in her frightened fit that Raoul being here at all would surely cost both of their souls; those calm, dreamy souls that deserved not such horrid vexation!

She clutched him bravely by the fabric of his jacket, holding him close...so close, as if it was the last thing to hold onto before she fell down once more into those depths. "Raoul, I promised him I wouldn't let you interfere. I _promised_ him! If he knew of this, we would be parted forever." Her wide eyes steeled then, ever mindful of that gaze that could penetrate the thickest of steel to seek her out and subdue her spirit, while in the same instant giving it the wings to soar.

"He won't let me go." Not now that she had seen that face, the very deformity that shielded an inwardly beautiful spirit. Christine drew away from him, cautious as if bitten by his venomous affection. There was something in her eyes now, a light akin to the one that had overtaken her the night of disappearance into the mirror. "Oh, but that voice, Raoul. I fear I shall weep every time I hear it for its beauty is far beyond any on this earth."

Sighing heavily as she chose to continue, he turned to her and placed his hands gently against her cheeks, her chin tipped so he'd be able to look into her eyes. "Christine, it is all a fable, nothing more. There is no Angel of Music, no Phantom of the Opera. It is all a myth, merely a man. A man you do not need to make promises to." The frantic, yet enthralled look in her eyes brought a worried glint to his own, especially when she pulled away from him.

_My God, what has he done to her? Who _is_ this man? _

While he didn't want her to retreat from him so quickly, he also didn't wish to smother. Instead of stepping close to pull her into his arms, he took her hands instead, holding them gently. "He cannot see you here, see us. You've nothing to fear. Please, Christine, don't draw away from me. Don't think of this madman. I love you too much to lose you." There, he said it, and with all the truth of the world.

He didn't understand; he _couldn't. _Time and the absence of her father's folk tales had made him impervious to such superstitions. But not she, not Christine. Her father's promise was a promise, and one she intended to hold his spirit to just as she had intended to hold hers to Erik. But _love?_ What of that? It was undeniable that ever since the adolescence of her heart had first fathomed some affection toward her friend she had wanted to hear those words. But could they truly console her now? Maybe...just maybe.

Perhaps it was the glint in his eyes, the conviction of his strong words that soothed her. _Safe. _Perchance it was her need for his strength, in such a time as this when she possessed none, and hardly even recognized herself when she sang anymore. Too troubled were her thoughts to grasp any coherent belief but the present one. "You love _me?_" Her voice was uncertain, disbelieving and vaguely aware the question drew an obvious answer. "You must be quite insane."

While his smile was weak earlier, it blossomed into a grin. "If I am insane, then commit me. Consider me plagued with such a malady that I wish never to be cured. The only solace I shall gain is if I am with you, by your side. I love you, Christine Daae, I have since the day I jumped into the sea to rescue your scarf. You were on my mind since the day we parted, while at sea, even returning here. I can honestly say that a day has not gone by that I didn't wonder of you."

Breathing out heavily, he shook his head, chuckling beneath his breath. "Perhaps it is too soon to speak of such things, but this has been weighing upon my shoulders for years. I thought I would never get the chance to tell you, and now that I have it, I'm not wasting the opportunity." Releasing one of her hands he stepped closer to her, and settled his fingers just beneath her jaw, his thumb's pad grazing under her lower lip. "Believe me when I tell you that you are all I've ever wanted."

Everything she so longed to hear, and still she was trembling. Or were those shivers the product of her fear, the presence of her tutor pressing hard on her conscience? It could have very well been either/or, but for now she could not help but find herself falling more in love with Raoul with each passing moment. As he eased closer, she instantly did the same, their faces pressed close together; so close, her brow – had she been of taller stature – would have grazed upon his.

The startling warmth of his very presence calmed her, and for it she was ever so grateful, her palm lifting to settle against the roughness of his unshaven jaw. The poor thing was a mess of fear and of love, each ounce of her troubled, and she desired two traits that could not have united. Would her devotion to Erik succumb to her love for her brave and noble Raoul? Who could know, the depth of her eyes was concealed by heavy lids which had closed to conceal them.

Loosening his hold upon her hand he raised his to press her palm more firmly against the side of his face. The smile returned, warm and inviting, though there was still worry in his expression. Not only for her well being, but for what she had been drawn into. Just 'what' he hadn't figured out yet. "Let's speak no more of these fears. You're safe with me."

_So close._ Long ago they had curiously indulged in that first kiss, innocent and so shy, and somehow he still remembered the light peck then her vehement blushing directly after. He was probably just as red as she had been, but grinning like a loon. Even thinking about the past caused the corners of his mouth to lift. Christine had not forgotten that first kiss. Since its occurrence, she had neither felt nor expressed affection for another. That is, until Erik.

Perhaps that was why this was so hard for her, and even his gentle words, though soothing, could not entirely sedate the turmoil within her, caused inadvertently by this new revelation. She loved him, heaven help her she did! With all of her heart and her spirit, she loved him. And still in her mind, nay even her _soul, _did her Erik, her 'Angel of Music – friend, guide, guardian, and the subject of both dream and nightmare – linger.

Sliding his hand from her cheek he passed it carefully through her hair, easing the mass of loose curls from her shoulder and behind. She might not have offered words of love in return, but she also didn't deny his. A thin line, he wouldn't press her to respond. Rejected, though ... he would be absolutely _crushed._

Christine drew hesitantly from Raoul, retrieving her palm from the weight of his own and ultimately from his sweet cheek. "You must leave, Raoul, and never return. If you do, you can never hope to see me again. Do you understand?" In the moment she wanted only to pull him close, to take again that sweet gesture of a kiss. She could only push him away. _Hurt him to save him. _How could she somehow assure him that she loved him? Was sending him away from her not enough? No, it wasn't, she had to remind herself that he still was so clueless to the plans in store for her.

It felt as if his heart took a cold plunge right into the depths of his stomach, and he could only stand there dumbfounded for a moment, processing just what she had told him. "What?" She couldn't mean that, it was _impossible_. Not with what he saw in her eyes. Lifting his hand and curling it loosely around her wrist before she moved it too far he shook his head, utterly confused. "You cannot mean that. Listen to what you are saying, you cannot truly mean that."

The depths of pain trickled toward suspicion and he frowned deeply. "It is because of _him_, isn't it? Because of the promise you made him. You don't want me to go. Tell me you don't." This wasn't how it was supposed to go. He was supposed to find her after so long, confess his love, she was to do the same and they lived happily ever after.

Christine never wanted to hurt him like this, but she could think of no other way other than to deny him. Every inch of her screamed to turn and take comfort in his embrace, pour into him every emotion kept caged and pent up. She found that she could have neither light nor darkness, or even the bland gray she would have most assuredly settled for.

No, a decision must be made, one she lacked the strength to make.

She turned swiftly toward him as he grabbed her wrist, her weight pulling against the hold as she pleaded with him, tears brimming in her dark eyes. "No, Raoul. Just leave." _No, stay! _Christine shook her head vehemently, stung by the harshness of her tone as she spoke her command.

Her first tug slipped her out of his hand which hovered briefly before lowering listlessly. What irritation he had was gone with the lashing of those words and he nodded slowly, numbly. Somewhere in the back of his mind he plucked at a loophole within her words; she told him to leave here and never return.

Those words he would honor, but he'd try approaching her again before or after the gala this evening. Most likely after. He didn't wish her singing to be weighed down. "As you wish..." he finally said, forcing out the words through a burning and clenched throat. "I shall take my leave, then. But remember..."

Lifting his hand he brushed his thumb over the corner of her eye, gathering the tear that seeped free, then stepping away he turned for the door with a glance at her over his shoulder. "Remember what I've told you today – believe me. Have a good evening, Christine." Taking a hold of the handle and giving it a twist he opened up the door to step outside into the blistering cold, then shut the door behind him quietly.

That moment when he brushed aside her tear was savored, and she feared that it would surely be the last. After the door closed behind him, Christine's bold front was shattered. She moved to the steps quickly, lowering her weakened form to the ledge. Sobs wracked through her shoulders, her lovely face buried in her palms as she drew her knees toward her breast.

She tried to keep her cries from reaching Mama Valerius, but nevertheless the woman was calling for her from her room above. Oh, how she lacked the strength to make that short journey to her dear Mama even! And to think, she would later have to return to that damned Opera to perform in a role she garnered by the misfortune of a snapped beam.

And after that?

Even deeper into the depths of her tormented soul and indeed the very House itself, as she had promised Erik, to return and sing for him. To serve. _I have needed you... _That voice, like a fog, settled over her brain.

She grew increasingly void of those form shuddering sobs, her pained visage lifting from her palms to soften. The tears stopped, the pain lifted, and by his thought alone...God save her, she was hearing his song within her mind as clearly as if he was there beside her! She stood slowly, catching her weight on the banister of the stairs as she climbed them cautiously.

He wasn't sure how long he stood there, leaning back against the door. It seemed like an eternity before he could will himself to move. Sliding his hand from the knob he traced his way back to the waiting horse and loosened the reins from the gate. Pulling the reins over the steed's head he slid his foot into the stirrup and brought his leg up and over to settle upon the saddle.

Looking to the house he trailed his eyes over it slowly, then turning the mount around he nudged his heels firmly into its flanks, sending it into first a quick canter, then a fluid gallop. He had to return home to clean up so he'd be able to make an appearance at the gala. He'd simply act like nothing had gone wrong and go on with the day, up to and including purchasing roses for congratulations to the diva.

But first, he'd have to avoid questions from Phillipe as to why he looked so glum.


	43. Chapter 43

The hours between her encounter with Raoul and her time to again return to the Opera drifted by, and by the time her carriage had reached the Opera Populaire, the sun had already long been set and the street lamps lit to welcome the incoming spectators.

Christine had been met at the stage door by Madame Giry and Meg, each inquiring as to her health and good spirits; both of which, she assured them, were fine and in tip-top condition. La Carlotta lingered about in the corridors near the dressing rooms the two shared in the same proximity, stating just as the young starlet passed – loud enough for her to hear – that she would surely botch this performance in one manner of the other, before turning and exclaiming to her companions: "What has the Opera come to!"

She disappeared into her dressing room then, leaving Christine and Meg alone to each reflect on the bitter assault as they approached the dressing room. How long and trying the day had been for Christine, and what she so longed to love she had sent away, fearing his safety...and even her own.

The sight of the large double doors unnerved her, and she was even reluctant to step into the room for a moment, fearing that if she did, she would assuredly never re-emerge. The candles had been lit and placed on every available surface, illuminating the roses Raoul had sent from their displays around every papered wall of the room. And that single red rose... Oh, no time to think of it!

No sooner had Meg closed the door behind them, she was working quickly to change into her costume, her nerves a mess of frustration and anxiety. Could she truly sing with such passion as she had before as Elissa? Indeed, the gossip and backstage scandal alone brought the audience in. Everyone was anxious to see just how well this new Prima Donna would perform on her second night.

The two worked in a still silence, the room slowly filling with various assistants to the star – all of which were La Carlotta's loyalists until the end – a hairdresser, a jeweler, one mistress of the costume department, and three women assigned to dab and dribble on bits of rouge and inked topaz and emerald. Christine, having been assisted by Meg into her costume, stood at the center of the room, uncomfortable and hounded by the members of the company that did little to sooth her ailing nerves.

Each had their own demand for "close this eye" or "stand straighter, cant your head to the left". How easy it had been to be a mere line dancer, assigned a cubicle to share, or if you were lucky, to inhabit alone. It gave time for focus, but who could form a thought amidst this madness!

Meg had been thrown out by the time they had finished carving her up into the very picture of a Queen, though she saw little need for the tremendous amount of make-up they smothered her in. She dared to move from her perch as they stepped back and eyed her with self satisfaction laden in their cruel eyes. Raoul would see her like this. _Erik _would see her like this; this...foolish little girl, dressed up in the garb of a woman. The stage manager leaned in the doorway, a pipe extended from one corner of his mouth as he scuffed, "Five minutes."

As crushed as he was, Raoul wasn't going to let the rest of his day be the same. It wasn't that he could pass her brush-off as something trivial. Something told him that she didn't _want _to send him away. If it wasn't for this angel she would have kept him within her arms.

He had gotten to the opera house early with hopes of seeing her; just to see, but not approach. That would come later when she would have no other choice but to roam past him. A bit underhanded, but he had to let her know that he still loved her, that her denial didn't change any thing he felt. Phillipe hadn't gone with him, he had some business to tend to.

Though the audience was just beginning to filter in and there was time before the opera would start, he already settled in the managers' booth, peering warily and bitterly toward box five. It wasn't long before he had company. Andre had invited himself into the box and tipped his hat to the exhausted young man. He nodded in turn, then tearing his eyes away from the box he looked down to the main floor.

"You look as if you have the weight of the world upon your shoulders, Monsieur." Barely noticing that Andre was speaking to him he glanced up blankly then finally let the words sink into his mind before offering a feigned smile. "Ah, no. I'm fine. Just thinking."

Nodding, Andre slid his hat from his head and lowered to one of the seats. Firmin wasn't around yet, perhaps still speaking with his wife outside. As time continued to pass, the seats below started to fill. "How was your visit with Miss Daae?" Grimacing inwardly he glanced back at the curious Andre and smiled again. "It was well enough."

Returning his attention to the front, he rested back in his seat and exhaled tiredly. He only hoped that their meeting afterward would prove to be less ... trying. He didn't order dozens upon dozens of roses this time, but only two, which lay tied together snugly at his side. These he would give to her personally, if he could.

It didn't take that much longer for Monsieur and Madame Firmin to make their arrival. Giddy with the numbers they were already pulling in, Firmin just beamed a bright grin toward his business partner. Assisting his wife to her seat, he took one nearby and slid his top hat from his head. Resting it upon her lap to be held, he clapped his hands together once and rubbed them briskly. "I dare say that we have more patrons than last night. Oh this is turning out to be wonderful."

Indeed, _wonderful. _As if this ridiculous costume wasn't enough. One would assume Christine had grown accustomed to it, having worn it just a day prior. Christine had rounded the corner of her dressing room of course lacking a substantial entourage, as La Carlotta so dutifully noted as she passed by the woman's dressing room.

Piangi stood up ahead in the corridor, his large helmet tucked under his arm as several women made last minute touches to his rouged cheeks and brow, combing out his mustache and sending him on his way before they each made wary inspections of Christine as she approached. One went to fluff the curls that tumbled over her shoulders, the others adjusting a jeweled wrist cuff here and a feathered crown there. She too was motioned along, the chorus girls next in line and most definitely the most tedious of all their inspections.

The wings proved their own winding maze of trials. The prop master approached her quickly, shoving the disembodied head into her hands without a passing glance. She gave it a wary once over, tempted to flee from this whole mess until the orchestra began warming up in the pit, and her chance for escape was stolen. In the stalls of the orchestra section, far beneath the glorious glow of the chandelier, fabulously garbed patrons filed in and took their seats, accompanied by a mother, a sister, a wife, a lover. The bustle only furthered her anxiety, and for fear she might faint, Christine instead began pacing.

* * *

It was rare that Erik slept, but after the day's emotional rollercoaster, he was too tired to remain awake for any longer. Unfortunately, his rest only lasted for a few hours before a natural alarm clock woke him up. He couldn't be overly late for her second showing. Donning a fresh set of clothing, and his usual articles, he looked over himself in a mirror and nodded slowly. 

She was to come down to his lair this evening, and he wanted to ensure all would be comfortable for her. Her room was where he went next, tidying up the pillows upon her bed one last time before he approached one corner of her room. Curling gloved fingers within the heavy drape of crimson velvet, he adjusted it, covering the frame work. This one didn't have a reflective surface, or any glass at all, but would have her reflection. To be precise, a waxen representation of her garbed in a lace, silk and satin gown, along with a sheer veil.

Jules had been so happy when he was told to find something like this, and he could only stand in stoic silence while the man babbled on. Closing the door behind him, he took up his fedora upon passing the table near the door, then without further hesitation, he began making his way up from the depths of the various caverns and floors.

Smoking, devil's eyes followed the path of the stalker as he secretly passed behind workers who were far too focused upon shoveling coal. Here was the hallmark, the point where he began to pass from the cool of his domain to the more welcomed warmth of those above. While he traveled he thought over the decision he had; visit her within her room, if she was still there, or simply continue up to his box? By time he would get to the dressing room she would be gone. But he thought to stop there nevertheless.

Though the distance between the two areas was long, he knew the various short cuts through this deceptive labyrinth, and several minutes later he was scaling the stairs of her mirror to glance within. His timing be damned. The door had _just _closed when he had gotten to the mirror, and glancing over the room he grunted beneath his breath.

Assured that no others would be returning, he flipped the latch and stepped into the room once the mirror pivoted. From the roses he had bought earlier in the day, only one was brought with him. Trading the fresh one for the old, he tucked it within his inner cloak's pocket then lowered his hand to adjust the lay of black satin. The ribbon poured from just beneath the neck of the bloom down along the sides of the crystal vase then against the table itself.

Not daring to linger for too long, he exited into the darkness, closing the mirror behind him with a soft hiss. He then went on, seeking out the pillar that would take him to his private seating. It wasn't common for him to arrive near the beginning of an opera. He was used to showing up in the middle of the third scene, or so. He had a reason to come at this time, just as he had the night prior.

* * *

Monsieur Reyer climbed to his perch, the orchestra falling silent beneath his instruction. Soon after, the overture began. It was a sweeping melody that carried the Opera into the story itself, and furthered Christine's anxious demeanor. In the orchestra seats, several of La Carlotta's personal friends had arrived, making as much of a scene as possible before the curtain lifted. 

The passing moments proved to set the youngster on edge, her frail hands trembling as the passed the prop head from one to the other. And without Meg or Madame Giry, or even her dear tutor, Christine was reminded that perhaps she was not destined for such glory as previously convinced.

Her cue arrived, and with her entrance onto the stage, the stage hands in the wings set into motion the thick velvet curtain. It peeled upon the stage to reveal her intricately bedecked form, trembling and fearful under those inspecting eyes. With one arm extended high into the air, she dived immediately into the role, her mighty and entrancing voice lifting past the glow of the foot lights and into the broad auditorium.

If there was fear and anxiety in her tiny form, one would have never guessed. With her voice alone commanding the audience, Christine edged forward and extended her free arm as if to Heaven itself, calling all angels to grant her flight in a time when she so desperately needed it. She was no longer Christine Daae, a chorus girl reluctant to relieve an arrogant Prima Donna, but Elissa herself. As her voice broke off to join the chorus, the stage began to fill and consume the massive expanse with the splendor of Carthage itself.

Erik could imagine her going out upon the stage, sure of herself, and ready to face a whole new crowd. Little did he know it was just the opposite. The lifting of her voice brought a subtle smile to his lips and he turned his path toward the pillar he needed to take. Skimming his fingers over the rippled plaster, he gave a slight press, knowing exactly where to push to get the hidden door to open.

Moving within, he settled upon the cushioned seat and closed the door before pulling upon the rope that lifted him to his box. Glancing through the tiny hole to make sure it was empty – after what had happened in the office it was best to check – he then escaped from the hidden portal. Lurking near the back of the box he shrouded the shadows around him, clung in the form of a cloak as he inched closer, testing the door as he passed. Locked, he rested comfortably and turned his gaze down toward the stage with a loose crossing of his arms over the expanse of his stomach.

As Piangi entered upon the stage, Christine stole a moment to cast a weary glance to Meg who had entered with the cue of the chorus. The two shared a silent understanding of her anxiety, and Meg was sure to will into her gentle smile some semblance of reassurance before blocking struck her at the feet of her 'Queen'. So strange, Christine mused; she felt she should shed those heavy garments and join her peers in the routine.

Something was _definitely _off tonight, and if it was not expressed in her crystalline voice and the manner with which she glided easily across the stage, then it was revealed in her eyes alone. Eyes that did their best to avoid sneaking a glance to the managers' box, where Raoul was watching from afar.

It had not struck her that the orchestra was repeating one measure of the extravagant cade, by Monsieur Reyer's instruction, merely because she had missed her cue. Piangi's eyes were fixed upon her, wide and expectant, as his hand motioned violently at his side – hidden from view of the audience by the heavy fabric of his robe – for her to sing.

_Horror!_ Christine blanched, turning in practiced drama toward the fattened tenor who was then being hoisted onto the back of the large mechanical elephant that was being wheeled onto the stage. Its expansive form masked the stage hands behind and within it, operating its swinging trunk. "Once more to my welcoming arms my love returns in splendor!"

Only his second time seeing this opera, Raoul didn't catch the repetition, but within the keen view of the opera glasses he did notice that she seemed distracted. He lowered the binoculars with a slow sigh and leaned back in his seat. Lifting his hand again he kneaded against his eyes tiredly. He could've taken a nap while at home, but he just couldn't get to sleep, no matter how hard he tried.

"Are you ill, Monsieur?" Worriedly Andre leaned over to Raoul who only smiled with a shake of his head. "No, I'm fine. I think I will go get some water, I will return shortly." Raising from his seat he quietly excused himself and opened up the door of the box to take his leave. Andre glanced oddly toward Firmin then over to the pitcher of water that was only a foot from where the Vicomte was sitting. He had beenwell aware of the water that was sitting there, of course, he just didn't want to put himself through any more questions or concerns.

Making his way past the other boxes and down toward the main floor, he pressed open the door that would separate him from the rest of the auditorium. Instead of making his way to the privies, he chose to go into his office. Still, from there, he could hear her voice which echoed like a painful reminder of the words she had stated earlier that day.

"She didn't mean it," he reminded himself, trying to drag out of this depressing mood he was in. Looking over the office slowly he glanced to the desk, almost expecting another note to be lingering there or elsewhere visible in the room. He breathed a bit easier when it was bare of notes. Tapping his fingers against the wood, he moved around to the chair and settled down heavily within it. There he decided to remain. To think, to plan.

Erik had noticed the slight, though. Noticed it the second she didn't turn toward Piangi to begin singing. Tilting his head slightly he eased closer to the curved front of the balcony seat, ensuring that none would see him by settling close to the curving drape of the heavy gold trimmed curtain. The red velvet was shifted slightly and he glanced over toward the managers' booth briefly, then returned his golden gaze to his diva. Only for eyes to flick back over with a light narrowing.

_I see... Looking for him still, are we? _Sinking back within the obfuscating depths of shadow, he pursed his lips gently and tenting his fingers, elbows settled against the chair's arms, he tapped indexes against his chin in silent repose. Shifting his hand a bit to the side he lightly rubbed away an itch that snuck its way beneath the edge of mask.

"Surely you cannot be getting bored already, my dear. You are losing focus." So gentle and light did his voice dare to whisper close to her ear. It may distract her further, or perhaps it would bring her back, he wasn't too sure.

In truth, those words served as a double edged sword. Whilst furthering the dissonance within her, they also proved to be the potion needed to fix her control. She was to sing with the chorus after Piangi belted his response, so if any evidence of her voice proved to make itself known, she could have easily masked it. However, the quality of her rejuvenated song lifted high over the others.

That darkened realm was bleeding through her now, crossing the misty lake and climbing stories to vessel into her spirit, which went unfalteringly and triumphantly through her beautiful voice. And though every muscle in her tiny frame was tensed by the suffering of her heart, she made herself the epitome of an actress, sure of herself and deserving of this stage.

Meanwhile, La Carlotta bristled.

She stood watching this spectacle from the threshold of the subscriber's door, an entrance nestled at the far back corner of the massive auditorium, and though she feared that this would prove to be the sealing mark of Christine's triumph over the hearts of those who had once adored only _she, _the great Carlotta Guidicelli, the woman further resolved to make the simpleton chorus girl pay, and pay dearly. She stormed off into shadow, making way for her dressing room. To pout, most likely.

Everyone seemed enthralled by the leading lady's singing – save for the 'former diva' of course – and the more she drew them in with her voice, the more money they would be making. While drinking, he cast a suspicious glance toward Box Five. Empty. He couldn't see the individual lurking just behind the swathing drape of curtain. Curiously he leaned to Andre, giving him a gentle nudge with a nod toward the box. "Do you think our 'ghost' is there watching now?" Smirking gently he leaned back again, shaking his head. Superstitious he might be, but all this seemed just a little far fetched.

Thoughts of the waking world drifted far from her mind. Even the audience appeared as a blur of colors, dulling until they faded away and all that was left in this strange trance she swayed in was her and Erik. _Stay by my side,_ _guide me. _Had she not pleaded that of him moments before he had taken her through that mirror, into his realm?

With this her only consolation, Christine sang well through the first and second acts, her tiny frame swelling and lifting toward Heaven with each passing note, carrying the audience with her. Even La Carlotta's companions could not deny that the charming way with which her wide eyes caught and held the gaze of an audience member here and there or the ravishing manner with which her dark curls tumbled over her shoulders, truly replaced – if only for the time being – the former 'splendor of her rival.

It was not until the third act, when the saving grace of her aria approached, that Christine at last dared a glance to the managers' box. She was not met with the sight of Raoul, but rather the uninviting persona's of the managers and a woman. As the gentle accompaniment of the piano began, waiting for her to begin, Christine sighed, visibly stung. From then on, it seemed to everyone that her voice was less firm, less crystalline than usual, almost suppressed. It gave one the impression that the heartbreak she had so tried to conceal was now vulnerable before the scrutinizing gazes, even _his_.

Whereas this specific song once had brought tears to the eyes of all who heard, it now only promised uncomfortable shifting in velvet seats and the whispers of those who anticipated this downfall. "She's a strange girl", Firmin's wife remarked quietly to her husband. "The other night she was divine, and now she's bleating like a goat. No experience, no training."

The tears that fell now were Christine's alone.


	44. Chapter 44

There had to be some way to convince her that this man wasn't the angel she was so hoping for, the one her father told her of upon his death bed.

"Only a man," Raoul mumbled to himself, his eyes rising from the desk to the office again. He rose from his seat and made way to the door, exiting the office, then continued back to the box.

He wouldn't make it in time for the beginning of her aria, which was disappointing. He wanted to hear solely her voice upon the stage instead of snippets of phrases here and there. It would be close to the middle when the box's door would open again, drawing a few eyes. To them he gave a false smile and returned to his seat. Gathering the opera glasses, he lifted them to focus upon her as if he hadn't left to begin with.

Erik's eyes might have been good, but not enough so that he would have caught that quick glance she had cast toward the manager's both earlier.

What he _did _catch was the change in her voice.

Where it had been vibrant and alive, it took a sudden dive toward almost painful to listen to, reminding him of how she sounded before he began her training.

His jaw set firmly, and he tapped his fingers against the curve of his arm. There were still a few more performances to go before they would begin to put up displays of the upcoming _Il Muto_ and he wanted her to be in all of them. Carlotta did not deserve this role, and with this change she just might gain it back. He couldn't have _that _happen. He simply _refused _to allow that to happen.

Dampening his lower lip slowly, Erik closed his eyes to half lid with his concentration, and that entrancing voice was heard again. "Sing for _me,_ Christine. There are no others. No audience. Only you and me, my muse. Sing for me, and me _only."_

She recalled the look in Raoul's eyes; the pain apparent, but steadfast in their resolve to save her. From what, though? Surely not the Angel of Music, who even now willed life into her dying voice? No, not after all he had given to her; helped her accomplish! Oh, but she was suffering on that stage. No gentle embrace, nor those words that licked at the shell of her ear could hope to satisfy the turmoil within.

As the orchestra swelled, proving to present itself more beautiful than its lead, Christine sighed. She no longer shined as the radiant Earth angel; even the glamour of her gown served to dull the vigor in her to sing, as if on a whim she'd been shoved upon the stage to perform despite heart break and emptiness.

_I can't, Erik... _she surrendered in mind and heart, too saddened by the thought of those adoring blue eyes turning to betrayal as she turned Raoul away. Too ripped between the music she so longed to disappear within, and the man her heart pleaded to live for, she...surrendered, and perhaps it was in that surrender that the strangest of events would occur.

Her voice, though pained – yes, that was undeniable – now lifted as if swelling from beyond the grave. It was haunting, but beautiful, and even those on the first rows of the orchestra pit, when then will recall that specific performance, will speak of the ethereal light within her eyes.

"A very strange girl indeed." Andre hadn't heard what Madame Firmin had stated, but he had the same thoughts in his mind, especially when Christine went from divine to croaking, to hauntingly beautiful. He glanced over to Firmin, who was surely being squeamish about these changes. Even he had to look down below to ensure that people weren't heading for the doors. So far they looked plastered to their seats.

Sighing gently in relief he regarded Raoul, who drew down the opera glasses to set aside. How he wanted to let her know he was there, silently cheering her on. There was no way without interrupting every one within the auditorium. Frowning deeply Raoul glanced around where he was sitting, then turned his attention to Madame Firmin and the shawl of silk she wore, a dark crimson, but still reddish enough to work.

"Might I borrow your shawl, Madame?" With a queer glance to her husband, then Raoul at the light desperation in his tone, she slipped the material off of her shoulders and handed it to him. Taking it with a charming grin he turned around and stood closer to the balcony's edge to drape the cloth over, hoping against hope that she'd catch sight of the dangling strip beyond the foot lights.

"Now what is he doing?" Firmin mumbled faintly to Andre, who simply shrugged, watching the boy a moment.

The strength of her voice had returned, but it wasn't in the same delightful grace that she had just the night prior, which only served to disappoint Erik further. The swatch of cloth caught his attention easily as he glanced over the audience. It was a blatant change within the ambiance. That perfect little annoyance was proving to be a thorn in his side.

Erik's jaw set firmly, and fingers tightened against the edge of his elbow, to a point where his fingertips and knuckles turned white. _Just what is he up to? _Whatever it was, it dealt with Christine, he knew this, and it did nothing but rouse the sleeping beast of Erik's temper. His gaze flicked from the boy down to the young woman upon the stage, and instead of speaking to draw and keep her attention upon him, he watched her carefully, intently, with an intense, stoic silence.

Oh, but she was rising now! Her likeness to misty sirens was striking, and at the aria's climax, many were unsure whether to give thunderous applause or flee for their very lives.

Little Meg stood watching this spectacle from the shadow of the wings, her brow knit in grave concern as the orchestra quieted, the entirety of the House enveloped in silence, waiting upon bated breath.

There were no roses tossed upon the stage, no shouts of adoration and joy; just that silence, and the shallow beat of her heart in her ears. It wasn't until she turned to make her hasty exit from the stage that Christine's eyes found that slither of crimson against the gold parlay of the marble balcony above. Attached to it, Raoul who was wearing a grand smile. _Little Lotte let her mind wonder..._

A dreary smile crossed her features, her expression sickly and stressed before it disappeared into the shadows of the wings, where she found help in her costume change from assistants who gave her leery glances.

Pulling the cloth back so it wouldn't end up fluttering to those below, Raoul was the first one to give that applause, which was followed next by the managers, and in a wave the rest were able to make up their minds. They chose not to flee, but to break the near silence with applause that stung even his ears.

His palms almost red, he sat again, a smile still upon his lips. With the shawl gently collected between his fingers he turned to hand it back to the perplexed Madame Firmin with a bright smile. "Thank you very much, Madame."

If only looks could kill, the heated one Erik cast the manager's box would have burned down the whole opera house and perhaps the block it stood upon. He was still attempting to contact her!

It was a good thing he wasn't holding to the handles of the chair or they would have snapped beneath the tight curling of gloved fingers. Pushing to a sharp stand he left behind Madame Giry's payment then took those few steps to the hollowed out pillar. He pressed the latch and entered the narrow tunnel, closing the door behind him with a loud click, hidden by the thundering applause.

Erik couldn't remain in there, not with the boy in the same general area. He would be tempted, far too tempted, to find a way to toss him right over the edge of the box. Once he escaped from the pillar, long strides took him beneath the pit and peering up he slowly walked beneath the stage, only to take up the quickened pace again.

Furiously, he placed himself upon a set path, to her room. It would be behind her mirror that he would wait until the opera was over. He was steaming, indeed, and the thoughts that continued to travel through his mind weren't helping to calm him down.

_What part of 'Make no attempt to see her again' did that idiot not understand? The absolute nerve.. _Grunting out a growl of breath, Erik paused in his pacing briefly and peered toward the mirror.

With the sudden sounds passing beyond the door he knew then that the curtain was finally coming to a close. She was soon to arrive, and he believed he should attempt to cool his temper. It was proving to be a difficult endeavor.

_She hadn't invited him, had she? _No, she wouldn't dare do something like that, not after she promised Erik that he wouldn't interfere. _Oh, but she promised that before, did she not? _Curling his fingers slowly, the blackened gloves nearly groaned in protest and he stared through the one-way at the elegantly carved doors, willing her to hurry.

This night proved to pale in comparison to the previous, but her ovation was no less an impressive one. A majority of the Opera goers were, thankfully enough, inept to the logistics of vocal range and acting ability. Give them a place to come and sport their finest jewels and apparel, to share in the latest gossip – and they would come, to hell with the 'entertainment.

It was a sad fact, but true. And one that served to dull the sting of rejection upon poor Christine.

The curtain call went by quickly enough – _thank Heaven. _She did not linger backstage, but cut a quick path to her dressing room, hounded no more by adoring patrons, but rather avoided and even spurned.

This little vixen who had bewitched the young Vicomte the night before with her stunning voice, set the poor boy into a concerned stupor, only to fall from her so exalted previous glory! Such scorn, and she cared not for it.

Within the safety of her room, she was assisted by two dressers in the removal of her costume. Free of its burdening weight, she was assaulted even further by the pain within herself, one trial replaced for another. She did not even find her thoughts straying to Erik, or even to Raoul, but rather numbed themselves in contempt as she lowered herself slowly to the chaise lounge.

Christine sat silent in those brief moments, holding in her tears and instead rocking herself slightly in her place. How easy it would have been if she had turned Raoul away the first time he came to her; indeed, even when he offered to save her scarf! But oh, that was so long ago and how could she have known then, at such a tender and innocent age, that such concerns would plague her now?

She _needed_ Erik.

That voice alone soothed every aching pang of her heart, and still – oh, curse her! – with the thought of that touch, those eyes, soon after came the image of that gaunt and disfigured face!

Christine groaned deep in her throat, her brow knit furiously before a knock at the door and a familiar voice drew her from her tangling thoughts.

"Christine?" the young Vicomte called gently, and upon the other side of the reflective plane of glass Erik _bristled_.

_Oh, no._ Raoul. It had to be. And though she had told him to stay away from her in the warmed foyer of Mama Valerius' home, she had said nothing of the Opera House itself. Standing swiftly, she snatched up her robe – which someone had washed and replaced on her night stand – and slipping it on, she opened the door partially to find her gaze immediately drawn to his.

After a brief, uncomfortable silence, Raoul offered her the bouquet of roses he had been holding. "I shan't keep you. You are probably exhausted. I...only wished to give you these." Glancing beyond her through the crack of the door he exhaled slowly, forcing back the desire to ask if he could come in. His voice lowered slightly, as if he expected someone was listening. "Remember what I told you earlier. Regardless of...what happened, it doesn't change any thing."

If he had fur, it'd be standing on end. Taking again to the slow pacing, he kept his eyes upon the scene before him, shifting between Christine, the door, and what sliver of the boy he could see. He shouldn't be angry at her, he should focus all of his rage upon the young man, but that lingering bitterness couldn't be completely drawn away. Slow breaths, and a languid backward roll of his shoulders helped just a bit when it came to loosening the tension that rested along the sleek muscle.

"Close the door," Erik whispered within her ear before he even realized he had said it. Surprisingly there was no sharp tone. It was gentle, and quiet as if it had been her own thought, only in a silk-smooth tenor.

Moistening his upper lip, he turned to face the mirror completely, his eyes narrowing to thin slits of amber. "Close the door, Christine, and come to me. Come to your angel."

How she wanted to flee with him then! But her feet would not let her move, and she opened the door further only to take those flowers, her expression void of emotion as she responded quietly. "Thank you, Monsieur. You are most kind." _Monsieur? _Her tone was cold and unrelenting, but the fire in her eyes that found itself ignited betwixt that low call of his voice and the presence of the man before her was undeniable.

She gave him no opportunity to speak again, but closed the door swiftly and found her hands fumbling to lock it behind her. Raoul drew a breath to speak, but didn't have the opportunity to say what he had wished.

Stepping back he stared at the wood that separated him from her, as if it were made from pure steel, unable to be breached. Blankly glancing to the handle upon hearing the click he lifted a hand and rubbed the back of his neck slowly. Her words seemed so impersonal, _but the look in her eyes... _

Beyond confused, he felt drawn close and pushed away all in the same breath. There had to be a reason, precaution. But who was she protecting, truly? Her 'angel' or him? Both? Lightly he shook his head. Everything would be clear soon enough. Until then, he was going to continue bearing flowers after her performances, and maybe stealing short visits here and there. In _and _out of the opera house, if it was possible for him to do so.

After sorting out his thoughts, Raoul stepped away from the door and turned to make his way down the hall. A short visit was in order with the managers before he'd make his way out and to the carriage that was waiting to return him to the Chagny residence.

* * *

"Come..." 

The familiarity of his call astounded her, and though she would by now surely be accustomed to it, the thrall was powerful still. Her steps were measured as she moved once more into the room, the bouquet laid aside on the dresser surface near the crystal vase that held a fresh red rose; one she had yet to notice, and showed no promise of noticing now as she moved despite her inward struggle towards the mirror. Her voice came forth in a low whisper, sweet and laden with the undertone of her desire. "I'm here, Angel…"

"Come, Christine. It is time to go home. Time to practice for your next success." Light and airy, he drew her closer, lured by the leash that was his voice, latching again upon the darker part of her soul.

The gust of cold air that accompanied the mirror's pivot snuffed out the candles nearest the frame, a majority of the room was engulfed in darkness that only furthered the mood of this impending night. Despite his control, the last remnants of her free will drew her to glance over her shoulder toward the door, a tinge of sadness sparking in her heart before it, like the candles surrounding her, died away.

She was his at last, and there in the darkness with nothing but the glorious melody of his voice to guide her, she could not fight, nor hope to escape from the thick oblivion that waited. And perhaps she was willing, and just maybe she had grown fond of her secret Angel, but it was without a doubt his woven spell upon her that her hand obliged to his beckon call.

Turning toward him once more, the softness of her hand secured against the impersonal chill of his lifted and beckoning gloved fingers, and she moved pliantly across that threshold, into the embrace of the night.

There was never again to be a flesh to flesh contact, he convinced himself of this fact, not after the way he had grabbed her chin just earlier this very morning. Nothing so ugly should be allowed to touch something so beautiful.

Curling his fingers against her own he stepped to the side, drawing her through the mirror's frame, and closing it again with a flick of a latch, he lifted his free hand to loosen his cloak's clasp. Taking hold of it at the shoulder, he drew it from him to settle it over her form, protecting her from the cold that threatened to bite down to the bone. The weight of the warm cloak was one she gladly accepted, a gift he bestowed upon her as if she were a queen; the queen of this mighty realm of music and dream.

"Welcome home," he spoke quietly near her ear, this time his head actually lowering so he could do so. Despite the anger he had just moments ago, his voice was kind, warm and drawing. Straightening he began their trek down toward his lair, this time without the lantern to light their way. He didn't need it, but since she wasn't able to see in the dark as well as he could, he kept her close to his side.

_Home? _Was this her home? Really, there in the darkness? Strange how she felt it was so, despite the yearning in her heart just hours before to be on the surface, in the light. Oh, but she couldn't have both. She was insistent upon remembering that.

As they made the journey, she remained ever pressed to his side, hardly hesitant but terse for the turn of passages and the scurrying feet of the rodents before and behind them. Without the dominant sense, the others were allowed their reign. To the touch, even the flesh within that leather glove was chilled. _Just as you remember, pressed to your skin..._

She trembled and lifting her freed hand, tugged the cloak lapels tighter upon her breast. Again in but her corset, skirt, and robe she found that the cold permeated much deeper than it would have had she not been in such exposing apparel. Thoughts strayed to her pained performance, guilt overcoming her as they traveled on. She would not speak unless spoken to now, too enraptured in his presence to comprehend a notion to fight.

The journey seemed to be a new one entirely, but perchance it was because the first had been made in a dreamy sort of state? Yes, surely that was it. She was careful in her measured steps, and the release of her hand drew her only to clasp each within their partner.

There was no hum that accompanied them this time. She was already with him, now willingly traveling at his side. Loosening his hold upon her hand he brought his arm around for the tips of his fingers to press gently against her lower back, right at the dip of her spine.

Carefully descending the stone steps to lead into the yawning tunnels and arching rock, he glanced down to her, regarding her quietly within the shadowing depths. "You were not focused tonight, my dear. Do you wish to lose Elissa to Carlotta so soon?"

His words drew a pang of guilt within her, and though his words were gentle, caring and kind, Christine was no fool to believe that what lay beneath his exterior was just as affectionate. No, she had first hand suffered his wrath, and was even _still _suffering.

Her voice was low as she spoke, humble even: "I know. I'm sorry." She lifted her gaze to him, though all she found she could make out was that sliver of porcelain on the opposite side of his face. She neglected the short lived glance and sighed. "I tried to send him away, Erik. Really, I did. He came to visit me at Mama Valerius', and I told him I could not see him. I told him that for _you, _because I promised you."

To hear his name upon her lips did well to partially erode away the rage that lingered just within. Between the fact that the boy had visited her, and she sent him away, he didn't know where to take his thoughts. Finally, he nodded slowly; satisfied. "It would not be best if your lessons are slacking, Christine. He will distract you. You would not wish to be distracted, do you?" Though he didn't intend to sound like he was chastising a child, that is how his words were given. Slow and steady. Controlled. He was still irritated, and while that seemed to be waning, it can be flared up as easily as the furnaces in the distance.

Shifting his hand from her back to her hip, he gave a gentle press, biding her to turn with him as they traveled beyond an arc of stone to another set of stairs. Once that corner was crossed, he moved his hand back to her spine. "This stage is yours, not Carlotta's. Her time is over now. And the time has come for a new diva. You."

_Yes, but am I willing? _Christine had never joined the corps de ballet to pursue the title, despite her fathers insistent encouragement. He dreamt big for his only child, and having died before he could witness such a triumph, Christine in some strange way felt obligated to absorb every bit of advice her Angel of Music gave her.

It was growing increasingly difficult for Christine to regard him as an Angel at all; his touch alone proved him to be a man. The fire in both his eyes and his words as he looked upon her was evidence enough that if he truly a being of the highest Celestial ranking, he was one exiled .. just as Lucifer; beautiful and incorrigible, and thus damned to make his home in the darkest of realms for those faults.

His words were almost like a father's, and somewhere within her Christine grew contemptuous for it. She was of a mature age, seventeen at least. That was woman enough in proper society, was it not? Oh, but how forgetful she was that he was not a creature to be dictated by social standards.

She still had much to learn of the world, and much to see of it, but those years seemed distant and blurred by the complexity of her present state. She did not respond to his words, but continued on at his side, under the protection of that gentle hand upon her back.

Seemingly not expecting an answer, he quieted again, a thoughtful silence that was soon broken by a faint sniff from him. Living below honed each sense more than they had been already, and his keen sense of smell picked up something. _Alcohol? _

Another light and brief touch to her hip paused her in mid step, and he moved away from her, pressing his fingers gently to her shoulder in silent indication that he wanted her to remain where she was. Then silence embraced again.

The nosy Joseph had gone further than he had before, and this didn't please him at all. The man was starting to come too close to his lair. While he had thought to make sure he never went this far again, he only watched the grumbling stagehand as he made his way back to the level of the furnaces, nearly passing by Christine on the way there.

A skulking pace brought Erik to her side again, and returning his fingertips to her spine he urged her toward the next level where the cool air began building. It wasn't until he believed them to be at a good distance did he speak again. "Continue to deny him," he said simply. Firmly.

In the silence that had settled before he spoke, Christine's thoughts had drifted. From this broken image to the next they were ever jumping and dodging; Raoul confessing his love...the chilling and all consuming touch of Erik...the contorted proportion of his face, and the heat within his voice.

His command broke her reverie, and though she had a mind to flee from him then for the unspeakable concept of that demand, she was still willingly traveling on. Though the pain within her voice was apparent, bleeding through from its earlier exposure on the stage.

"He loves me."

* * *

_A thanks to the avid readers that were patient to wait for another update._


	45. Chapter 45

"He loves me," she whispered so quietly it was a wonder that he heard her. That was the only nudge that was needed to draw him back toward the irritation.

His jaw set firmly and exhaling a sharp breath he lowered his gaze to her. _As do I_, came out as more as a low, throated growl of "I. Don't. Care." Love.. _love_? What would that boy know of love? All he wanted was a pretty little thing on his arm, one that was becoming successful, to heighten his riches and possessions in the world. She was not a possession.

And if she _was_ anyone's possession, she was _his_!

"Continue to deny him. He will only make it harder for you to accomplish what has been in your heart." He did his best to veil the jealousy that kept rearing its ugly head with a valid reason as to why he didn't want the boy around her. "Did your father not wish for you to become something? I can only help you, if you do not turn from me," so soft now, pitiable. He exhaled a slow sigh and lifted his eyes to scan along the stone before shutting off the gaze completely.

He was losing it. Losing that control he had. All for a woman he couldn't have. One that had seen the monstrosity beneath the mask and was horrified. It was a losing battle, but in his stubbornness, he refused to let go.

She was stung by his words, and visibly recoiled from them. The blow within her conjured the thought of the impossibility of her relationship with Raoul. _Can you really deny him?_ She was beginning to think that she could, until the softened words of the man at her side touched in her that same pitying chord as before. And Lord though she tried, she could not shake the hold this masked man held over her. While Raoul represented what light was in her life, she was increasingly succumbing to the darkness within her soul; a darkness unexplainable and leaving on her conscience the guilt of her self-inflicted sin.

He had once said that fear could turn to love, and perhaps it had in her. Somewhere, deep within the woman she was becoming. And if that was the case, she knew not what to call it, knew not what to curse when her soul was in such turmoil, torn between the two creatures that captured her every waking and, dreaming moment. He was in her thoughts even now, roaming freely within her spirit.

Her jaw slackened as if she were to speak, but no words came. Only silence. For as much as she wanted to reassure him that she would not stray from his guidance and deny her young Vicomte the love she held within her heart, and for how much she had grown to adore this exiled Angel, she could not. And for that, she grew fearful of the consequences.

Just how much could he control her without ruining her mind for all time? There was only so much he could tug upon that leash before it'd choke and snuff out the lively girl that had caught his attention. Even now he could see the beginnings of that stifling. The lost look within her eyes, the sickly pale hue of her skin, and even the darkness beneath her eyes. He didn't know how to make it better. Surely he just couldn't tell her to have Raoul visit, only for him to take her below afterwards. It was wise to allow that, to become no more than a tutor and destroy everything before it had a chance to fester more.

Was it already too late?

Perhaps he could do the same he bade of her. Not complete denying, he would still see her during practice, but cutting off affection, attempt to cut off emotional ties. He was an emotional creature, there was no denying that. Where those upon the surface restrained their emotions, keeping them locked behind a facade of stoicism, he was passionate in everything he did.

Every thought. Every movement. Every breath.

Over the past few months he had no other choice but to fall for the woman. But why couldn't she do the same for him? Love the faceless entity that haunted the Opera House and her dreams? And even when she had a face to a name, why couldn't she be blinded to what laid beneath the mask? To see his true soul. How he wished he could bare his soul to her within words as he had done in music.

So deep within his thoughts, his feet drew him along the path they knew so well without a smidgen of attention from him. The mist was once again thick, reflecting him in many ways.

Sliding his hand from her back when they approached the dock, he slid his fingers beneath her palm as he stepped into the boat. With the pole lifted and set into the water, he held the gondola steady as he lured her in. Once she was within, he moved toward the bow of the skiff and worked the lantern to illumination. The dark was welcoming, but these waters were tricky, even to him; and he had been living beneath this building since it first broke ground.

For a split instance his face was lit, seeming almost normal with the perfect profile she'd gain sight of. Until he turned his head to rise to a stand. With the tilted pole gathered from the mast, he stepped inside, barely disturbing the floating of the boat with his weight. With a bit of force, they began gliding seamlessly down the blackened path of glimmering, mist covered waters. Just as before he had taken this opportunity to regard her from behind, studying even the smallest bit of detail – and truthfully taking two steps backward upon this path he had thought it was best to take.

A teacher wouldn't study their student so intently, would they? Not even a protector or father figure. He reminded himself of this, and lifted his eyes to look out into the darkness. "Have you studied the scores I have given you?" An attempt at casual conversation, to shatter the silence with gentle lilt of his voice, which echoed faintly against the thus far unseen stone around them.

The cushions were comfortable enough, and with the comfort of the heavy cloak pulled tight around her, the slight exposition of sleep that plagued her would have been indulged in until they reached his home by the lake shore. That is, until his softened words obliged the silence previously found to engulf them. The misty waters unnerved her, as if in those depths some unseen creature likened to one of her fathers dark tales would breech the surface of that placid lake and steal her away from even _he. _

Her response was a soft, one that neither exposed nor concealed her inner stirring. "Yes, I have." Intently, even. _Faust _especially compelled her, though _Il Muto _was to be her center of focus; it was, after all, the forthcoming production and one that stood at stake in the battle betwixt the resident Prima Donnas; one a famous name, the other...a promising young starlet.

A simple question, responded to with a simple answer. He nodded, and inevitably his eyes lowered to rest upon her again. He could only view part of her profile from his position, lit by the dull glow of the lantern, one that faded now and then as the oil shifted and flame flickered. "Forgive me if I seem to harsh," _and damn the boy that is making me. _"Though.. perfection demands sacrifice, even if you must deny yourself what you wish." He knew that she wanted to be near the Vicomte, and it pained him to even verbally admit to it. An ache that couldn't be concealed from the soft words.

Carefully dragging the pole from the water, he brought it over the other side and steered the skiff toward the right of a tunnel. Adjusting his grip, he nudged the bottom of the pole against the side wall as they began to drift too close, then dropping it back into the water with a quiet splashing, he returned to the measured pace of strokes.

Christine longed to conjure words to tell him of how she felt towards _him. _Though naive, she was certainly not as insipid as her peers proved to be; the pain in his voice was undeniable, and guilt plagued her in those moments she took before responding; "I wish for your guidance, and your approval. Should I deny myself of that as well?" There was a trace of a smile upon her lips, her tone teasing as she turned slightly to eye him from beneath the curtain of her lashes. _That is not all you wish for, Christine... _the darker depths of her nature stirred then with those veiled words, and her cheeks flushed violently in the dark. Thankfully, _in the dark_.

She shifted again to observe her surroundings, the immediate proximity illuminated by the lantern before her. She turned Raoul away for him, to protect each of them from the other. Selfless even in matters of her heart, but most important of all, and terrifyingly so, who would protect her from herself?

"Is it not my guidance and approval that takes you toward perfection?" His chin lifted slightly, raising the rim of felt so she'd be able to see his eyes from beneath the line of the fedora. He understood that her words were given in jest, but his answer was serious nevertheless. After a brief pause, he continued, though upon a different path of thought. "You will be able to rest now. The next showing is not for a week or so. Two, if you are lucky. It seems these managers are smart enough not to do a production more than four times a week for someone still growing into their voice."

Lowering his chin again he watched the pole graze through the mist and water, his face once again shadowed for the time being. He needed something else to put his visual focus on instead of her. He was doing nothing else but torturing himself.

She felt foolish for her former remark, and before she could give a response to mirror his own professional demeanor – one she was mildly alarmed by, but spoke nothing of – he was speaking again and steering them from that former course. Christine had suspected upon her return to the Opera that afternoon that the managers would have replaced her with the return of Carlotta. However, word had spread from the dancers lounge and into the very flies themselves that instead, Christine would continue her run as Elissa._ La Carlotta _would take up again her title in _Il Muto_ as the Countess. As for Christine? Well, she was said to be cast as the page boy, Serafimo.

Already, posters had been concocted for Albrizzio's opera, boasting Carlotta Guidicelli as it's charming heroine and it seemed that the managers were packing them in at the Opera House by scandal alone! Something in his voice and demeanor unnerved her; he was much more distant, colder than usual. She did not speak of this, instead occupying the remainder of the journey with thoughts that served to do little good on her weighted heart.

"During this time," he continued, his voice never changing from the practical, almost monotone timbre it had taken, "I suggest practicing the scales at least two, or three times a day. To exercise your throat. Letting it go lax would prove to be most disastrous." If he could continue regarding her as but a student, then this dangerous infatuation could be shed. He had to come to understand that even if he forbade her to be visited by the Viscount he would have little power over her within the waking world, outside of the Opera House. There would always be those who admired her. And no matter how much he would wish to keep them away, it wouldn't be possible.

She nodded her compliance, still ever present of the impersonal manner with which he conducted his speech. Even his presence seemed cold, and struck her as familiar – had she not treated Raoul in such a way? Lured him forward, only to have him linger as so close for a kiss, before pushing him away without so much of a blink? No, she had shed tears for him. Tears that still went repressed and secret, for despite her better efforts, she loved Raoul. With all of her heart, and heart alone.

But what else of her had she surrendered to her young Viscount?

Her mind was still no doubt enraptured by Erik, both perplexed and fearful of the man who dwelled far below the Opera. She sang her soul out for him, and while Raoul had such a pleasure to take her into his arms, it was by the will of her body that still it recalled the faintest of touch by the chilled hands of her tutor. Should she regard him as just that, her _teacher? _Keep him at a distance, as he did now with her? Would he care? The poor child held her heart on her sleeve, and though she steeled her response, there was no doubt it pained her to find herself so rejected. "Indeed."

He nodded once, though said nothing further, content – yet discontent – to leave the silence alone. It wasn't until then did it seem like the bank suddenly came into view. Docking the gondola upon the smooth surface of the stone, he pressed it further, allowing the wood to catch upon the rougher section. Lowering the pole and stepping from the boat, he drew close to the bow to extinguish the lantern, then raising his hand it was offered to help her from the cushions and the boat itself.

Secured on the banks, Christine lifted her hand from his own, resolved to return the favor of his 'cold shoulder'. The cloak was returned as she wordlessly lifted two tiny hands to unfasten the clasp at the neckline and hand over the heavy material, mindful to keep it from dragging upon the stone below. And through this quiet work, not once did her gaze lift to find his own. The lovely depths of her eyes were instead fixed into the distance, shadowed by the illumination of the candles behind her.

He tried to ignore it, did he ever try, knowing it was for the best if they simply went on as teacher and student, though he couldn't deny the conflicting emotions that laid in his chest when she carelessly handed over the cloth. She might as well shoved it at him and continued walking without a glance back. Exaggerated from her actual action, but that could only be blamed upon his self conscience. Often it took the most innocent things and twisted them to resemble something harmful.

Without so much as a graze of fingers, he lifted the cloth from her and swept it over his shoulders to clasp within one smooth movement, then stepping away from the boat, he approached the hall, leaving her to follow. The candles gentle flames seemed to cringe away from the chill emanating from him, some even flickering out, sputtering to nonexistence, leaving the hallway just a smidgen darker. He didn't seem to notice, or just didn't care to as he opened up the door to his home. Stealing away a candle from a nearby candelabra, he quietly stalked from one candle to another, bringing back the light she so cherished.

The cold within each of his actions only furthered her resolve to regard him with the same, though a pang within her heart tried to discourage her from such brutality. She paid it little mind, and if she did, it could hardly show from the chill of her expression. She moved behind him, her eyes lifted to the extinguished candles quickly before she followed him into the expansive cavern slowly.

This entrance was certainly nothing like the one before, when his hand had held her own and gently so, tentative and caring as his words served as the caress she desperately longed for. Even now. No, things had changed, and be it by her own hand or his...Christine could no longer tell.

She watched without interest as he lit the various candles that rested lifeless in their stands, before she stole away towards her room. If nothing else, she remembered that.

To deny she was hurt by this new transaction between them would be a false presumption, and no longer did she strive to be in his presence, but as far from it as possible. The lavishly decorated room was dark when she entered, and in that enveloping depth she groped for the one item that granted her some sort of amiable humor; the music box. It was upon the bedside table as it had been the night before, and as she sat on the ledge of that comfortably furnished mattress, her tiny hand reached to wind the device carefully. With the release, the melodic notes quickly began.

Pausing in the lighting of the next candle, he was unaware of the wax that dribbled down the length of the cream colored column until he felt its burn upon the side of his finger. A good portion had pooled then spilled over the tip of the glove. He watched it dispassionately, following one drop then another as it landed to its splattering death upon the cool stone below. Pain lets a person know that they were alive. Not all, apparently. For the empty clench he had experienced felt as if he was dying.

Trading the new candle for one that was melted so far down there was no hope in lighting it, he picked the wax from his fingers then turned the disk slowly as he approached his organ. Dropping the wax within a nearby box, already half filled and ready to be turned into candles, he suddenly remembered something that had him inwardly cringe.

The gown.

He hadn't thought to take it out of her room before he went back to the surface. It and the waxen representation of the young woman. With her room currently dark, it would be in his luck if she didn't get curious and look upon the covered 'mirror.' Distracted by the loving nudges of a small furry head, he settled upon the organ's bench and picked up the feline to settle her upon his lap. His palm traced over the arching line of her back from nose to tail, sweeping slowly as he closed his eyes to the gentle trickle of music that came from the robe garbed primate. And quietly, along with the tune that was being played, he sang. "Masquerade... Paper faces on parade. Masquerade. Hide your face so the world will never find you..."

There was something melancholy in that simple tune, and her eyes brimmed suddenly and quite unexpectedly with it. As the mechanical little monkey swayed to and fro, playing his cymbals in silence, Christine sighed. How long could she continue this before guilt overwhelmed her? She continued to study the item before her in silence, standing after it's mechanical clinking came to an abrupt halt and tracing a single, slender digit over it's fuzzy brow.

She did not notice the gown laid out upon her bed, nor the 'mirror' in the corner that was draped with tapestry. Instead, she made for the door once more, contemplating the response she would give to his unusual cold. Though...what reason had she to apologize? Had she not pushed Raoul away for _him? _If shattering promises proved to be the fault Christine held, could it not be said that this one she remained vowed to? The frail little Earth angel stood watching him from the threshold of her bedroom, her form cutting a swath of brilliant white against the darkness of that chamber she left behind.

Though the music had drawn to a stop, he heard it still, cheerfully chiming away within his imagination. She wasn't the only one that had been caught by the charming notes and what she looked upon was the pure opposite of the majestic form she had laid eyes on less than an hour ago. His back to her, shoulders were drawn in and his head drooping between them with Ayesha cradled within his arms as if she was the only lifeline that he had. Adoringly, she rubbed her face against his skin, her bright blue eyes half closed and rested only briefly upon Christine in an almost 'you did this' accusing manner.

Was he...crying? The shudder of his shoulders drew her closer in curiosity and in pity, and God if he was crying, she would never forgive herself! The presence of the adoring feline did not off set her journey towards him, and as slippered feet drew her closer, it was then her voice broke the silence softly, gently. "Erik..." It was half statement, half question that lifted her voice over the consuming quiet.

She did not reach out for him, but instead stood several feet from the stone incline at the feet of the platform that housed great organ engulfing the far wall of the cavern. Within the candle light, her physical appearance seemed rejuvenated. The dark circles under her eyes were no longer apparent, nor the pallor of her cheeks, rather now their rosy hue returned and spread over the smooth expanse of her neck and the exposed swell of her breast. Several dark curls fell over her shoulders, and in that moment when she stood concerned behind him, she was more lovely...more radiant, than ever had this dark depth promised her to be, so void of sunlight and freshened air.

Chocolate-hued ears flattened back when the woman drew closer, and instead of hissing, a throated rowling rumbled through her body. That's what let him know she was approaching. It was a shame the cat hadn't been upon his lap last night. Then again, would he have noticed if Ayesha was pitching a fit? He had been too enthralled by his music and the images they evoked.

Discreetly he gave a wiping of his face with both hand and felines body before raising his head and glancing partly over his shoulder. "Yes?" The tightness in his throat was only slightly present, the word given softly as not to betray the grief that lingered. He didn't wish to hurt her, physically, emotionally, at the same time he didn't want to be hurt. Already cynical, it would only make him more jaded than he was already.

Shushing the cat, his hand returned to the slow stroking, calming her further beneath the light pressure of still gloved hands. He hadn't bothered to take off his things yet, distractedly he had been lured back to his organ where he knew he would find solace within his playing. No sound came from the instrument, but there seemed a silent music within the way his fingers would glide across the light pelt, and unabashedly the cat soaked up the attention.

Should she confess all? Every secret within her soul, every dream? She stood contemplating her options for a moment, wringing her hands idly as she dared not venture closer, too aware of his wrath. "I'm sorry." Her voice was low, strained with genuine emotion. And still that cynical pang within her insisted that the fault was not her own; that he was merely unaccustomed to the ways of the world, and thus made temperamental and spoiled by his solitude; childish in his sulking.

She inwardly chastised herself for such thoughts, her gaze drifting from the expanse of his narrow back towards the palms of her clasped hands. "Perhaps I can send him a note? Telling him to stay away...from me. Only, please do not be angry with him, or with me. No one can choose where they will love, and he still fancies me the little girl he once knew. I sing only for _you_, Erik. Surely you must know that. Despite my pain, I sang my soul for you tonight, and now I'm dead!" She watched him closely, her eyes now wide and what remained of her voice frantic by the time she had uttered those last remarks.

Turning his head back around he finally rose his hand to take a hold of the broad, felt edge, and capturing it between his fingers he lifted it, drawing it away from his head to be placed off to the side, covering whatever score that happened to be in his way. Bringing his hand to the narrow of his throat, he released the clasp that held the heavy cloth upon his shoulders, and it fell away listlessly, draping over the back of the bench, unable to fall completely to the ground due to him sitting upon its length. All done so impassively, tiredly. If there were times when he felt every minute of his age, now was one of them.

Tucking his hand beneath the soft belly of the cat he lifted her from his lap and lowered her to the ground before sighing gently. "And your soul is a beautiful thing, Christine. No emperor ever received so fair a gift." He closed his eyes, shaking his head faintly. "But it is a gift I am unworthy of." After rubbing against his leg firmly, Ayesha finally trotted off, flicking her tail condescending self satisfaction.

With his words, words that served only to further her anxiety, she crept forward. Her hands were left to relax at her sides, pliant to gravity. "How can you say that? Is it not _you_ that taught me, gave me wings so that I might soar into Heaven?" There was almost anger in her voice, the level of intensity within them increasing as she questioned with wide and frantic eyes fixed upon him. What still rested between them that held her at such a distance from him? What could he possibly hope to conceal from her, after he had already exposed so much through his song ..and through her damnable curiosity in the stripping of that mask?

Christine took measured steps to bring her but feet from him, her presence willing into his the audacity of a beauty who braved the company of a beast. A long silence passed between them, her heart the only sound that reverberated within her ears.

It was as if he could feel her drawing closer with each step, her words and eyes boring into the back of his head. He was a bit surprised – albeit pleasantly – that she was speaking to him in such a manner, letting her opinion be known without shying away from the thought of him being irritated. At this moment, though, there was no anger. Only caustic bitterness.

"Anyone could have taught you, anyone who didn't have the need for deception." Lifting a hand he brushed against the line of his jaw, wiping away the saline rivulet that lingered along it, slithered like a villain from beneath his mask. Pulling in a slow breath he closed his eyes briefly, then exhaled after holding the air within his lungs for a few moments. He kept his eyes forward, lingering upon the bust of Mozart. He was a genius, but had also been driven mad in his determination for the perfect opera. Driven to death by those he believed were close to him.

She would not shrink away from that bitter tone as she would have before, but instead saw it as resolve to further her pursuit of the .. closeness she perhaps wished from him. He made a valid point, but something furthered her desire to learn of him all she could. Christine drew in a deep breath as he had, releasing it after several seconds. She knew what thought suddenly crossed her mind was one that would surely evoke his disastrous wrath, but somehow she couldn't care. Her lovely eyes fixed on what proportion of his profile she could see, and remained there as she spoke:

"Show me your face without fear."


	46. Chapter 46

_Back to posting! For those that's patiently waited for this story to continue, thank you. Also, thank you to those that's helped me with it. You know who you are. _

_A special thanks to both my beta reader, and editor._

_As a side note; Soto no Hito will be continued very soon!

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"Show me your face without fear."

It was the mask that she concluded to have been the barrier between them. Not a mirror, or a lake, or a world of light versus darkness. It was that hideous deformity that made _poor, unhappy Erik_ a creature that felt should be so loathed. And perhaps Christine would have hated him if it had not been by her own choosing that she would encounter that face.

Maybe – just maybe – he was indeed the Angel of Music to some small degree, and perhaps would have been to the extent that Celestial being had God given him the form of beauty rather than decay. She waited upon a bated breath, her heart still persistent as it thundered in her ears.

The cold, frigid dread that had dropped like a brick within his stomach quickly shifted toward a boiling anger, but he continued to sit. Continued to stare. Continued to remain silent. "You have seen it enough already," he finally stated at length, and if his voice was a tangible thing, the floor between them would have crystalized.

Just when it might be thought that he was finished...

"I see. You wish to take pity upon the horrid creature. To try to dare yourself to look upon me without cringing, is that it? Make it a little game for you? Or perhaps you wish to have a solid reason to return to your _lovers_ arms?" The way he stated that single word, so slowly, so filled with venom that it would have sounded nicer if he snarled it at her. It was a good thing he wasn't petting Ayesha anymore, the poor cat would have been in some pain; his fingers were curled tensely upon his lap, enough that he could feel the nails biting against the glove and his palm.

_"No, _Erik. So that I might look into your eyes and see for myself why you are so, as you say, _unworthy. _So that I might see the face that so long saw mine from within shadow, and denied me the simple return." Her retort was just as sharp, but not hardly as stinging as his own. With the way he hissed the word 'lovers', one would have the impression she was not a young woman of virtue but rather a brazen harlot with countless companions.

With a sigh, she tried in vain to calm herself, and to soothe the fear that was rising in her by the growl within his voice. "And if I were to cringe, it would be because I'd recall the splendor of your genius and realize that it is_ I _who is so low and unworthy." There was a restraint in her voice, one that perhaps suggested that she had yet more to say. However, she fell silent, save for the short wisp of a sigh.

Suddenly dissonant chords lit the air from the dual fists that had been struck upon the organ's keys."Damn you. Why must you ask me such things! Knowing, _knowing_ I cannot deny you! Don't you get it, Christine? Or are you enjoying this little passion play too much to see the truth as it stares you in the face?" His jaw locked so tightly that even she could hear the slow grind of teeth. Then, all at once, it was as if he lost steam and with a strong exhale his risen and tense shoulders dropped down to their former position.

Too much had been said, more than he ever wanted to say. And again he found himself backpedaling from his intentions of becoming impersonal. Sliding one hand down, the other lingered upon the organ, now silent after its pained shriek, then after an eternity, it lifted to tuck his thumb beneath the edge of porcelain. A moment's hesitation, and he pulled it up and off, only to settle it delicately upon the shelf of wood before him. Still he didn't turn, _refused _to turn. She wouldn't scream again, he had the feeling, but he would always remember the look of absolute horror within her eyes. It was burned in his memory just as deeply as his face was in hers.

Her heart pounded, and his words proved to rest imperviously upon her spirit as, at last, all was silent again. In that moment's hesitation, she mustered the courage to creep forth, as she had the night prior. Only this time to a willing if not hesitant face void of mask and thus defense. If only she had known he was trying so to maintain that level of impersonal chill between them! But Christine, for all of her innocence, knew not the power she possessed even in such a demand as this.

As her gaze followed that mask towards the wooden shelf, she had by then moved to his side, her palm rested upon the tensed muscles of his shoulder. In what took an eternity, her gaze lowered at last to that horrid deformity. Her breath caught in her throat, released in the softest of gasp as she could but stare into the gaunt and twisted flesh that compiled a majority of the region around his temple, brow, nose and cheek bone. If a bone was even there... for, like his nose, it appeared gone, sunken.

For as long as she lived she would never forget that face, one side perfect personified, the other...Death itself. Slowly, her fingertips lifted to touch to the flesh near his brow, her smooth pad coursing over the rigid crevice and memorizing it's every quality. _Born this way._

The feel of her hand had been like a string, drawing his head down to veil a portion of his face in false strands. It was as if he was six all over again, shying away from anyone looking upon him. This from a person who gladly frightened the daylights out of a whore just a few months ago.

He had expected her gasp; to it his jaw clenched. What he _hadn't _expected was for her to _touch_ the skin. Openly and _willingly _touch. Only his fingers had touched the ruined skin. He stared blankly at his hands, absolutely baffled on what he should do other than sit there. Still he hadn't turned to her, his neck felt far too stiff to allow him such a simple movement. Muscles were so tense within his shoulder and upper back that they were beginning to burn, a heat that traveled along his neck and scorched his ears in what was decidedly shame.

There was space on the edge of that bench, and Christine grew tired of standing. She sat instead, her form opposite in the direction his faced, but nevertheless she continued her silent inspection of the so oft shielded proportion of his face. So close, and still he lingered so far from her. She willed some strength into her free hand, drawing it to gently touch upon his chin, urging his gaze into hers. The other cut a trek from his brow to his cheek, dusting aside several of those strayed strands.

Perhaps she was too stunned into silence to speak, or rather...felt that silence was best left undisturbed for the time being. Regardless of the reason she spoke not of this deformity, the sweet child even contemplated pressing a kiss to those visible scars, as if by some strange miracle, the simplicity of the act would transform them. She refrained, her touch gentle as she continued in her exploration. She didn't even notice that her free hand still rested upon his perfected cheek.

Still, his eyes remained low until he mustered up the strength to raise them, dulled amber to hazel and there they remained. He had been exposed in such a manner so many times before, but nothing ever like this. He felt as raw as one of those never-to-be-healed wounds, and there she could see it within his eyes. All the sadness in the world that she had viewed before in snitches, but not now. Fully exposed, and with a tracing of something else lingering, welling along with unshed tears. Fear.

Those brimming tears mirrored her own, though hers came now in pity and in the sadness she shared there with him. Pitiful creature of darkness, with those eyes that could both pierce her soul and set her spirit to flight. How could she hate the face she held between her warm palms now, so contorted and...fearful.

Breaking his throne, Delilah cut Samson's hair, stripping him of his one strength, so now did Christine touch him in his most vulnerable state. Without his mask, he wasn't just the 'Opera Ghost' or the 'Phantom of the Opera'; no, now he was a human, and he was breathing right before her, a living man that could die just as easily as she.

Mindful of the fear she saw in those eyes, her fingers at last slipped from their exploration of the wounds to settle upon her lap. Though her voice was soft in the proximity between them, there was a tenderness in her eyes that had replaced the wide eyed curiosity of before; if this was a thrall, it was one of ever gentle and graceful nature. "Shall we start with my scales, teacher, or began work on _Il Muto_?"

He wasn't even this vulnerable when he had the attack. At least then, when he was unmasked, she was several feet away from him, fearing for her life, and his face was covered by his arm. Here.. here she was touching upon that very skin he loathed, and cursed with all his being. The skin that made him detest the God that brought life, the woman that held that life, the very same one that spoke of ending it. It was all some sick joke the 'Almighty' had; toss the human monster out in the middle of the world, see how he fares. Tease and taunt him with death, only to rob him of even that bit of solace, of that _freedom,_ at the last minute.

He swallowed thickly, forcing down the burn that kept growing within his throat, it wasn't discomfort to express anything, no. He simply didn't want her to pity him more than she already had should he begin sobbing like some overgrown child. He didn't want her pity, damn it! That was the last thing he wanted. He wanted what every man did, what every _human_ did. To be wanted, needed, desired...loved.

It was that solitary word, 'teacher,' that helped him in fighting back that burning sensation within his eyes, and turning his head from her he slid the porcelain from the shelf to place it back over his face with a practiced ease.

Christine's gaze followed his gloved hand towards the porcelain domino before them, and in it's short lived journey from the shelf to his marred profile, she noted the ease of the maneuver. Pitiful that he had resigned himself to it. Christine was a restless youth and could not fathom a life of such emptiness, such loneliness. Never could she imagine willing from the warmth of the sunlight; the warmth of _human comfort._ But she was foolish, she knew. For it was not by his own control, but rather Fate's that he was denied such simplistic gestures of affection. Gestures she could so easily misuse, or overlook altogether.

He cleared his throat softly, to get rid of the lingering traces of taut pain and acidic burn and nodding faintly he gestured her to turn around to face the organ. Keeping her near? Yes. "Your scales first, to warm up your throat," quietly as he splayed his fingers gracefully over the instrument's keys and side glanced to her. "Ready," he questioned, starting only after she gave the assent. C scale first.

She shifted in her place, turning to face the organ with those tiny hands still folded in her lap. Attentively she sat forward, poised for the lesson she was relieved to have coaxed from him. How long could she suffer them both through this 'passion play' as he had called it, before her innocence and her adoration unwittingly destroyed them both?

Nodding once he closed his eyes briefly, then lifting his head he turned it to glance over toward her. "Back straight. Try to relax." He was still as tense as ever. It could have been from a number of things; how close she was to him, the ground she might have broken, ice that melted, froze, thawed and cracked... "Lift your chin...Higher. There."

Another nod and he brought his eyes back to the keys, then paused just after playing the first note. "Perhaps we should practice on the piano? It has a more pleasant sound, and I would be able to hear you better, compared to this contraption." Lifting a hand and pressing gloved fingers through dark strands, the flicked away from his ears and were smoothed back into place effortlessly. He hated to have anything less than a perfect appearance. As ironic as that thought was. Lowering his hand between them, he pressed his weight against his palm while sliding free from between the bench seat and the organ.

She of course did as instructed, though it was all to find itself short lived as he suggested they move to the piano and she naturally complied. She stood soon after, effortlessly lifting and slender dancers frame from the bench. Hands lifted to again tighten the sash of her robe, furthering in their travel to push several strayed curls behind her shoulders. Truly, she had to stop making it a habit of venturing into his realm in such fashion.

Though one could deem it fitting that the pale elegance of her garments leant her the appearance of an angel here; the thick mass of her chocolate ringlets, a halo illuminated by the softened candle light. She awaited his instruction, for in her passing glance over the central cavern, she did not see a piano. Then again, it was only a momentary once-over, and Christine was much too consumed in still fixing her lovely eyes upon both the perfected and masked proportions of his face.

She wouldn't see much else other than four doorways; the door they came in, her room, his own, and the kitchen. Straightening his jacket slightly, he followed her glance over the lair, then moved away from the organ and down the incline. It was toward a heavy tapestry that he walked, and taking a hold of its side he pressed it off to the left, hooking it against a bit of iron set into the stone of the wall. Another doorway revealed, darkness laid just beyond, but taking up one of the candelabra, he fixed that problem easy enough.

"My...home is wired for electric lights, though I do not trust them enough yet." Last time he tried them he ended up with sparks. Perhaps, sometime soon during a time when he had nothing to do, he would attempt to fix the problem. Placing the candelabra beside the doorway, he took up one of the candles and proceeded to move from one lantern to another.

The room wasn't as large as the main cavern, but it was filled shelves of books and different types of art. Tapestries, paintings, sculptures, and a grand piano laid dead center. Going over to it, he set the candle aside, then lifted the top of the piano, then tucked the bracing stick just beneath the edge, holding it aloft. Sound flowed much better that way.

This room served to fascinate his young pupil upon entrance, and drawing towards the far wall, she dared to brush her fingertips ever so gently upon the polished frames of several paintings. In fact, she made a wide sweep of the entirety of the cavern, drawn from an intricate tapestry here to a sculpture there. The corners of her thin lips lifted gently, hazel eyes absorbing all that the proximity offered. "Where did you get all of these?"

Lifting the lid covering the piano's keys, he pressed it carefully into place, then looked over to her as she traveled from one area to another. "Many different places; Asia, Russia, Persia, so on so forth. I traveled often in my time," _and for good reason. _Sometimes it was easier to run than be faced with people who scorned, and hated. He was tired of running now, his main reason of remaining below ground, only exiting when night had fallen, or in the early hours of dawn. Perhaps it was another form of running, but he didn't see it this way.

It was accepting.

Loosening his gloves, he eased them from his hand and folding them together, he placed them upon the mantle of the piano, then pulling back the seat, he rested upon the velvet cushions. "Some are from my own hand, among a few random devices." With an elegant shrug he motioned to a door that lead from this room and into his laboratory.

_Persia, Russia? _Such wonders he had seen, and she had thought the journey from her tiny village of Skotelof to Paris a sight to see! And how remarkable it proved to be; she could barely recall the deserted moor, the lifeless landscape of a dreary winter. _Those _memories served as_ her_ Asia; the villages she and her father traveled between, the wondrous sights of Rome, or America. She could conceive that many of the artifacts before her were of his own hand, and she made a sort of game of it to try and guess which.

However, all of it proved so far beyond the level of her artistic intelligence, and she had to give up. She turned from one particular setting, quietly musing as she gazed, fascinated upon the wonders. "Will you tell me of those travels some time?" She remained idle for a moment, eyeing the door that he had motioned towards before she approached the piano.

"You would enjoy that?" Observant eyes shifted from the painting she was near to her, and he turned when she stepped closer to the piano. Fingers bare, he smoothed them against the ivory keys, caressing them almost lovingly before he began to play some random 'intermission' music. Soft and slow, it seemed to fit the calm ambiance of his surroundings. Beethoven's own _Sonata uasi una Fantasia_.

He shifted over slightly, giving her plenty of room should she choose to sit. "Perhaps...if you stay," he paused a moment, skimming his fingers toward the higher notes with the slightly stronger strophe, they calmed, drifting back to the gentle ballad. "I will tell you of all my travels." Raising his chin he turned his eyes to her, needing not to look upon his hands to play.

When she found herself fixed beneath the weight of his expectant gaze she shifted uncomfortably. Rounding the bench in measured steps, she moved to take her seat beside him. _If you stay?_ The haunting melody that seemed to thrive within his fingertips successfully furthered her ... could anxiety serve as justification for this new and hesitant feeling?

Her heart felt clenched within a tight hold, presumably that melody, or the depths of those eyes. Either way, Christine lowered herself to his side upon the cushioned bench, avoiding those piercing mismatched hues and focusing on his fingers, free of gloves, as they skimmed over the ivory keys.

Sensing her hesitation, he corrected his words, seeing as to why she might have been refraining from answering. "I...did not mean forever. Just during the time of your rest. This time." There was just something so soothing, almost sad about this song, though absolutely beautiful. It was one of his favorites, from the very first time he heard it he had fallen in love with the melody.

Eventually his eyes drew to a close and his head turned for him to face the keys, and after only a few beats, he began rocking gently with almost every solitary note that was slid over with his right hand, then he began to steadily lean over in her direction as he traveled further, and further along the keys, and just when it seemed his shoulder would touch her own, a pause came and he retreated, languidly drawing back to his original octave.

_Genius_. Never could she hope or aspire to produce such beauty through music; her voice, with time, would grow to prove enviable even to Heaven. But with this clarity, this...passion? She could sing with love in her heart, in her thoughts even, for the music that she poured forth. She envied that dark, compelling force within him, though knew not what to name it. Could such fire be confined to _label? _The ballad stirred her within, and by his hands, shadowed – if only in the moment – the thoughts that had so plagued her from before. In song, and even in a casual recital such as this, the control with which his music possessed her was undeniable.

Drawn so deeply into the song, he hadn't thought any more of her lack of answer, only enjoyed the melodic rhythm as it passed from his soul, though his fingers and escaped within pure sound. Rarely anything he did was with half a heart. Especially when it mattered. This casual recital mattered to him, he was playing for her, and she was enjoying it.

So calming were the notes, that even his breathing slowed, his whole manner becoming lethargic as if he were truly part of the notes he was playing. The tension that had been within him earlier was almost completely gone, but the longer he played, the more lax were his muscles. His head lowered slightly between his shoulders, causing a few random strands to spill over the sides of his face, some licking in a vivid contrast of dark against bone-white porcelain.

He could have gone through the whole sonata, but only played the first movement. Drawing to a close, the pattern of his hand changed. It was the right playing the chords while the left lingered upon the solitary, then finally, upon the last few notes his fingers seemed to press so lightly along the keys that they hardly touched, but still produced a rich sound. Then silence, broken only by his slow exhale.

If her thoughts roamed elsewhere within the almost nostalgic depths of the song, she did not show it. As the tension drained from her form, Christine grew increasingly aware of just how close he sat...and still so far, upon that bench. Every inch was tensed for _something; _the electricity that emitted in invisible sparks at what seemed an eternity of length between them set her on edge.

The dim atmosphere of the room danced their shadows across that porcelain mask, the strayed strands of his hair cutting darkened lengths into the illuminated domino. Something even compelled her to dust them aside and away, and her hand lifted, poised to gently press aside those freed filaments before it quickly recoiled as she noticed the silence of the music. Her lips pursed as she turned to face the piano, her eyes closing briefly as one long, soothing breath was taken.

"It is a shame I didn't have the pleasure of writing that song." Chuckling low he lifted his head and hand to ease away the strands her fingers didn't. His head was then given a gentle shake. "Though I am off on a different pattern of thought. We are supposed to be practicing." No surprise that he became distracted easily when he was surrounded by music.

Sliding one hand off of the keys he rested it against the material of his slacks and played the C scale before gesturing her to begin. It would be played again, this time along with her voice, though she didn't need any help in searching for the notes. This was an exercise they had gone through so many times and without music to back them up. As she sung he would watch her, just as intently as he had behind the mirror. And like before, his eyes never strayed any where other than her face.

Her hands folded idly in her lap, with each change of scale she was just as accurate. An apt and obedient pupil, she knew every way with which to measure her breath; to bridge those soaring notes from her 'chest voice' to her 'head'. _He_ had trained her, had he not?

"Before we begin upon Il Muto, do you need the script, or have you studied enough to have both spoken and sung word memorized?" The side of his mouth lifted, hidden by the edge of white. "Perhaps now I do not have to pay an acting teacher to assist you."

She drew in a breath to respond, but his last remark paused the flow of words, and for it she could not help but smile at the rare appearance of his humor. "Indeed" lilted forth into the proximity between them, tinged with laughter. Just as airy came her next statement, her shoulders uplifted as her arms extended before her in a languid stretch. "I have the lyrical proportions memorized," Christine was remarkably adept at memorizing a melody; pay it towards her fathers instruction and adoration for music that she had inherited. "I will require the script for the spoken parts, though."

"Do you wish to run through the whole script, though? You have had a long day, and you were exhausted earlier. Perhaps just the songs. Then tomorrow we will work upon the speaking parts and actions. Depending on...how long we have." He noted that she still didn't answer his question of her staying, and decided not to push any further. If she didn't ask to be returned tomorrow, then she'd be able to stay as long as she wished. The thought of her remaining for the whole week or two nearly brought another smile to his lips. It never reached his lips, but it did in the feline-amber of his eyes.

Had she been tired before? Oh, she couldn't remember. Not that time or sleep mattered here. Here, she was free to drift in and out of dream as easily as one came and went from the market; such simplicity between the waking world and the consuming power of a solitary dream. She did so wish to continue with these amiable rehearsals, but also longed to hear of the stories he had promised to share. Yet, there was his hint again .. regarding how long she wished to stay with him.

Christine was silent for a long while, contemplating this. What had she to look forward on the surface? Several remaining runs of _Hannibal _to perform, enduring in silence the knowledge of Raoul's presence feet above her in the managers box, again at her dressing room door, again with flowers and quieted reminders that his love was ever true. One had to admire the young Vicomte for pursuing so faithfully the chorus girl. Yet, hadn't she herself suggested a letter to send to him, biding him away?

If she stayed with Erik here, perhaps he would forget all about his 'little Lotte'. It would be safer that way, would it not? Yes, of course ... it _had _to be safer. "Might I stay several days longer, Erik? Perhaps until I must return for _Hannibal_?"

"But of course," the words were given evenly, controlled, as to not betray the excitement that undoubtedly lingered in that ever expressive gaze. He nodded faintly, and looking away from her his chest fell in a soundless exhaling. She was going to stay. She _wanted_ to stay, and he didn't have to manipulate her in any way. It was a success in his eyes, something to feel good about. Though not too much, things could easily fall down around his ears again without so much as a warning.

"You may stay as long as you like, Christine. Return here as you wish. I have shown you the way. If you cannot recall, I can show you again." Raising his head he turned it to look over to her then with a mental clearing of his throat, he dipped his chin within a half nod, then tipped his head some. "Shall we continue?"

She drew a faint smile to her expression, a charming little gesture that lit up her shadowed features. Could she be happy in this decision? Time would assuredly tell, as it had with even Raoul and his affections. She couldn't think of him now. For his safety, and dare say her own, she resolved to learn how to push him away. Even from her thoughts, despite their persistence to remind her of the innocent boy.

A light shake of her head chased away these nostalgic memories. "No, I recall the way. And yes, please. Let's continue." She wanted to enquire as to what she could wear while here, or if perhaps she could return to the surface for several of her belongings. Aware from proper society, even then he must have been aware of her immodesty? Or, not. Which only furthered the rosy tint within her cheeks.

"Should you wish to pause, we shall. The opera is not for another few months. We need not rush into everything." Unlike how he pushed and pushed and _pushed_ her to practice with _Hannibal._ That was only because he wanted to make sure she was perfect in such short time. "Let us begin with the first act, second scene. The Countess' lament." Curling his fingers, he then slowly uncurled them before caressing along the keys again, bringing the lilting notes of the comically jaunty touch of the song.

_Il Muto _was a lighter hearted opera, filled with laughter and jokes, often made side-stated to the audience as if they were part of everything. It wasn't one of his favorites, but if there was a chance that Carlotta would remain silent for the whole opera, then he'd be most appeased to assist her in learning the Countess' parts. Like she, he had learned the music easily, and while he played he returned to watching her quietly.

She was tempted to ask that they continue the work later, but no sooner had she mustered words to refrain, he had began the airy chords that called her cue. Christine contemplated idly if she were even fit for such a role; Carlotta was certainly the more flirtatious and brazen of the two, and the Countess' role, while it called for a great amount of charm, also required of Christine – if she were even to play the part – a stretch from her so confined experience. Yet, had not Elissa been a stretch for her in many ways as well?

She relaxed as best she could, an attempt to dive head long into the humor of the role. That breath helped a bit to lighten her spirits as she began, her voice pure in sound and lilting .. jesting, even, as she 'laughed' out each note with trained skill.

Silencing the piano he smiled lightly with another nod. "You have been practicing. If you continue as you are, you will be the greatest Countess ever." He paused, searching through his thoughts, mentally flipping among the pages. "Third act, scene two. Beginning with 'They say that this youth..' etc."

His complement was certainly a flattering one, and she could not help but further smile upon her delicate features. She did not know about the _greatest _Countess, but with his guidance, surely _one_ of them. She cast him a quickened glance, questioning lightly. "Shall I sing all of the parts from that point?"

She had noted that the Countess' attendants sang those opening lines; two fops – specifically a hairdresser and jeweler – and the Countess' confidante. She would sing what was required of her however, though for the time being she awaited his response. The tension that had built in her had dissipated with the...normality of the present state. As if they had always met here to play and to sing, enjoying the presence of each other and forgetting if only for a while the world outside.

"All save for Don Attilio. I shall do those parts. Just for a better feeling. This will allow you to know the moments ahead of your own parts." It made plenty of sense to him. To know when to come in. Carlotta once refused to sing the parts before her own, because she believed herself to be greatest – not that she still didn't do so. Then one fateful evening she kept missing her parts. Given, it was his fault for distracting her, but it was a point proven.

To think, he had once given it thought that Carlotta might become something admirable if he assisted her, though her vanity was disgusting, and that alone made her a target for the House's 'Ghost.' Bringing his hands together for a faint kneading of one against the other, he splayed his fingers and started playing the beginning of the scene.

She willed a light and cheerful demeanor into her words, bringing to life the precocious and ... sexually secured Countess. A small smile caught itself upturned on her lips. As she reached the lyrics assigned for the fops, her range naturally lifted to conform as she sang on; already her voice expressing ethereal clarity and inspiration.

_His_ inspiration.

For tries that she made, Christine could not convince herself that what she put forth in the present state was enough for him. In his presence, she strived to move mountains when she was but a mere mule, brow beaten by the elder members of the _corps de ballet_ to believe she was an insignificant tyro. She, little Christine Daaé, a mouse in the presence of a god.

When her voice came in behind the accompaniment of the piano a ghost of a smile found his lips, and he closed his eyes to half lid, focusing upon the notes that traveled through his mind. It was during the final 'shame' that had him open his eyes again, and with the canting of his chin he brought his gaze over to her.

Just moments ago the air between them had been tense, and now it was as if his unmasking hadn't been done. So often he tried to become cold to her, to separate himself from this before it became too deep, but that was shattered when her fingers touched against his face, stroking over skin and bared skull alike without one sliver of disgust upon her face. A breakthrough, and because of it he was drawn more than he was before.

Though it was the porcelain that touched his face now, he could swear that he still felt her caress.


	47. Chapter 47

_Just a quick thanks to those that's helped with this._

Soto no Hito, and Never Talk To Strangers will be updated soon!

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Fingers brushed with an unbeatable skill across the keys, effortlessly bringing the music into the air, and though they were to be putting their focus upon the song, he found his drifting away, resting more upon her sitting so close to him. Though, still, his fingers didn't skip a beat or miss a note.

She grew keenly aware of the weight of his gaze upon her, the undeniable power in those eyes settling into her soul and willing life from the depths; those unspeakable depths that beat in time with his music – felt stretched and tugged in skin much too tight to imprison her abounding spirit. From where she sat, perched at his side upon the piano bench, she could only see the perfected side of his visage. Unmarred by the cruelty of God's lessons learned, and sculpted into a handsome profile she so longed to touch.

For a long moment, she was silent. Would she speak? It surely seemed so, the way the delicate line of her jaw slackened and her brows lifted heavenward as if in mock contemplation of a thought. Alas, whatever words had hoped to meet the air of their comfortable surroundings, were inevitably swallowed and she continued on. Unspoken secrets laid heavy betwixt this tragic pair, she the very essence of an angelic being glowing in the luminous light of his dungeon within the silk fabric of her dressing gown. He, her polar opposite, bathed in the dark itself.

Dear God, could it be true? Was he– _Why, the monster has learned how to love._ The realization caught him so off guard that his fingers stumbled, actually _stumbled_, against the keys, and missing his entrance he played the bar before it, catching himself as he glanced away from her and began the husband's part.

He could play the part of a husband, repeat the words of love, but to actually say them to her? Oh, he couldn't! He just couldn't bear to hear her laughter, or even see the horror on her face. Not when he wasn't even sure if _love_ was what he felt! How would he know if that was what it was precisely. It couldn't be lust; he knew what lust felt like, it had hit him like a stone in the gut back in Persia. He didn't feel something so perverse with this vision of beauty next to him. No...what he felt was pure, new...and it thrilled, yet frightened, him.

There was something juvenile in this new atmosphere, and yet ... something experienced, adulterated and deep. It stirred within her as she shifted her gaze towards him, allowing her eyes to settle on him for a long moment in ... why, in wonder! He was nervous! This awesome and godlike presence that called to her in sleep, enticed in her a deep trance of warmth and music and inspiration, now was but a man of flesh and blood, stammering over the keys and trembling beside her. Letting her gaze slip to the keys before them, she began the cadenza. A strange vexation overtook her as she hit each note with precise skill, never realizing that she too was trembling.

'_I sing only for you,'_ she had told him. But oh, did he not catch her gaze flickering up to that boy, as if trying to catch his eyes, and let him know that she was singing for him at that moment. He had felt many types of jealousy within his long life along with envy that someone could gain something that he couldn't. Even when it was so simple as the sunlight upon his full face. But to feel it toward someone else because of something, someone, he wanted... this too was new to him. As much as he tried not to think of the hours prior, he couldn't help but remember what had went on upon the stage.

The boy loved her, and though she might claim it was the love of a childhood friend, he saw how he looked upon her. It was beyond friendship, beyond adoration. It was the love of a man who had realized that this little girl they grew with was a beautiful woman. He had no chance against the fop. While he could give to her all that she desired, possessions were nothing, meaningless. He couldn't give her the thing he wanted to: perfection.

Their voices would entwine, becoming one, his lackluster compared to the ones from earlier. No, no he had to drag himself out of the pit he was digging. He had her, all to himself for two weeks now. She was going to stay with him. _Why yes, of course. Stay with you, so you can change your mind about her remaining around her precious Vicomte. She's trying to lower your guard, Erik. Why do you think she hesitated to answer? Clever, clever girl._ Just as easily as the music had began, it stopped. With his chin tipped downward, his gaze remained upon the keys, thoughtfully.

When the music quickly faded, her gaze would in question venture to his profile, the delicate arch of her brows furrowed as she spoke. "Is anything the matter?" She feared suddenly it might be another attack, akin to the one that toppled him over in agony the night she had foolishly! unmasked him. Christine's gaze faltered with the thought of that dreadful...death's head lurching towards her, pinning her defenseless to the ground with eyes that both ravaged and raped her, showed both fear and sadness at her betrayal.

If only she was on his other side. With only porcelain to look upon she wouldn't have been able to see the faint downward tilting of his lips, but that wasn't the case now. Glancing up at her question he turned his head so he could regard her directly. Gold eyes ran over her face slowly, drinking in the sight of her modest beauty, and the visible brow drew inward and down. "No," he said slowly, softly. "Nothing is wrong, my dear. I was simply taken off guard by something. Nothing worth speaking of." _Or thinking of._

He had to stop digging up these ideas, these fears of his. He lacked the self confidence he so desperately needed. If it was there, he wouldn't be leery of her interaction with the Vicomte. He could express his love for her openly and without reservation. Everything could be so perfect… but that was impossible. Any sliver of joy he had gained within his life was always destroyed in one way or another.

_How will you betray me again, Christine? How will you hurt me more than you have already? Is there a dagger behind your smile, waiting to bury into my back the moment it is turned?_ "Do you truly wish to stay with me during your break between productions?" Could it be a possibility that she was remaining for him, and not from some alternative, hidden, motive? It almost hurt to be so suspicious, but he hardened himself to the pain that wanted to grow in his chest.

Christine was troubled by this new and sudden shift of the thinning atmosphere betwixt them. Under the weight of his eyes, she was left wondering if really, with his question, she did wish to remain here with him. She was silent a long while, thinking on this as she sat beside him, solemn and appearing almost as if in prayer. Why was she staying, really? To sing for him, only him, as she had promised? To enslave herself in this gilded cage to a glorious master of music and song? Or perhaps it was in hope that she would forget her young Vicomte in the weeks she passed away with him.

She appeared increasingly troubled by his question, but fought not to express it as she lifted her eyes to his. Oh, but she couldn't make herself gaze into those depths without shivering at what secrets lay within them! Like a giant abyss she stood teetering on the edge of, and though tempted as she was to end this existence of hers, one that promised only emotional vexation, she dared not submerge herself into its blind oblivion.

"I do, Erik." She could not risk the guilt of spurring another one of his attacks. Nor could she refuse to stay here with him, return to the surface, and never hear his magnificent voice again, experience the thrill of his presence, the majesty of this underground kingdom where she felt so...at home, at peace. Torn by the indecision, Christine lifted herself from the perch of the piano bench and moved away silently, wringing her hands upon her corseted abdomen. She had never noticed how cold this place was...

Uncertainty rose up as she stood and moved away from him, scratching and raking at the surface until he was forced to bleed from the inside. Again he had to ask…was she just saying this? He didn't think it was to save him from heartache, both literally and figuratively. He couldn't fathom that it was for any other reason than to protect her childhood friend.

Dear, foolish Christine, if only she hadn't been caught within those fleeting glances. Was it truly her fault, though? Did she ask for this boy to return to her life, especially at such a moment as this, where she was on the cusp of stardom? There had been the teachers and fatherly need to have her pursue her career without someone to distract her, and now that lover's jealousy. _But oh, Erik. How wrong you are. You are no lover to her. You can't even touch her in fear that you might harm her. Are ther__e bruises upon her chin where you grabbed her so fiercely?_

Such ever-changing emotions. Where there was jealousy and growing irritation, now there was unfathomable guilt as his heart first leapt to his throat, then pummeled headlong into his stomach, leaving behind a distinctive feel of emptiness, a numbing prick of realization that this could never be. "I am glad," he finally stated at length. And though he was truly glad, his voice lay devoid of any emotion. Were there any words to express just how much he regretted overreacting?

She had caught him off guard, and all he saw was the laughter, the cries of horror and the crop coming down repeatedly upon him. He snarled at her like a wild beast, becoming what he had been treated as for so, so long. It was fight or flight without his mask, his only strength and pride, yet at the same time his greatest hatred. And, by God, if he didn't have the attack he might have strangled her within his incomprehensible and unthinking fury. There were no words to describe how much he regretted grabbing her in such a manner. He turned his head around, looking upon the keys as his fingers brushed across them with the caress of a lover, then with a gentle press, an equally soft melody sliced through the silence.

Such indecision riddled her delicate features, the smooth line of her brow deeply furrowed and the plump of her lower lip unconsciously nibbled upon in her agitation. And just when she had resolved to turn on him – _and say what, Christine?_ – the softened melody of the piano filtered forth into her senses, accosting her very soul and stirring it from its embittered stance.

Her features softened, a great, soft sigh escaping through the moistened folds of her mouth. How could she bring herself to hate him? She reflected as she stood there silently on the months that had passed. No, she could surely never regard him with such passionate fury. Not after she had seen that face, experienced the haunting depths of those eyes, piercing right through her own.

She had promised him no distractions, and more than ever she was determined to hold to that promise.

How easy it was to swear such covenants when her dashing Vicomte was out of sight, out of mind. However, she found her mind wandering. Turning at last, she gazed upon him with indifference and serenity in her expression, her bright eyes taking in each physical feature. The strong outline of his smooth jaw, the eyes that proved, next to his art and genius, to be the very storytellers of his secretive history. "Have I angered you?"

"Angered me? No. Not at all, Christine. You have not angered me. Though I am mad. Yes, quite mad." Chuckling deeply, almost bitterly, he ceased his playing and slid his way from between the bench and the piano. Sliding his hands into his pockets, he moved away from the instrument and turned his focus upon the ground. Slowly he began pacing, moving further from the piano, then back in its direction. He was angry, yes. But more angry at himself as he dwelled on that night.

Where he should harbor ill feelings for her removing his mask, he could only bring to mind the anger that had been directed to her dangerously. "Whatever shall we do, Christine?" Pausing, he turned toward her, then almost seemed to contemplate something before 'continuing' with his sentence. "During the time you will be here. Surely we cannot simply practice and have tea." Tipping his head to the side he nodded, a thin smile crossing over his lips. "How about a visit to the park?"

_Quite mad?_ A lump arose in her delicate throat, her stomach twisted into intense and painful knots as she studied him, her eyes wide and ever mindful of his prowl. Christine moved uneasily around the piano, creating quite a comfortable distance though she realized it not. Her voice was soft as she responded, her tiny hands uplifted to brush several chestnut curls from her cheeks. "Yes, a visit to the park would be...lovely."

She thought idly on the normalcy of such a trek. Two lovers strolling in the park, and of course beneath the light of a full Parisian moon, for she knew he would never agree to venturing out in the day. _Two lovers_...could it be possible that the respect and reverence she for so long held for him had now shifted? Of course, she positively adored his voice, the music that he filtered through her unworthy form. But him? Could Christine, even for the delicacy within her heart that made her a compassionate and loving creature, find it within herself to love such a man? One who made his home so far from his kind, commanded more and more from her while returning so little, his hands icy to the touch and his eyes ... _oh, God those eyes!_ Christine lifted her gaze to find his, for Heaven help her, even as her mind beat wildly against him, her soul obeyed some unheard command.

"Would it," he questioned almost immediately after her comment, and settling his fingertips against the glossy surface of the piano he slowly traced around it, drawing along its back then pausing not too far beyond it's apex. "Yes, yes it would." Musing quietly he continued the path, coming up along her side with a very slow pace. The grim line that was upon his lips earlier was gone, replaced by a smile so faint that it would take a keen eye to pick it up. "Tomorrow, perhaps? I should like to think we would enjoy that. Time away from the Opera House, away from here. From all this...darkness."

Raising his head he looked away from her and took his eyes across the very shadows he had been speaking of. The gentle flickering of candlelight held them at bay, though they danced and writhed, as if ready to consume the tiny flames at a moment's notice. A gentle, soundless melody was played over the wood, a brief caressing of fingers before he turned his gaze back to her. For two weeks she was his and his alone. He wouldn't have to worry over her going to see the Vicomte, or some other suitor that might catch her attention.

She was staying here for him. Not because he forced her to, or he enthralled her with his heavenly voice...she wanted to. It was that very thought that had him make up his mind. He wouldn't sing. It was a brash decision, but he wanted to make sure she wished to remain because of her desire, and not because he had drawn her into some lucid state by song. She would understand, wouldn't she? She had to...

Lethargic steps brought him but a few feet from her, and lifting a hand he paused it a mere inch from the skin of her cheek, then fingers elegantly brushed the _air_, still unable to bring himself to touch her. Not after hurting her as he did. "You will have to dress warmly. It may snow," he lowered his hand to his side, his fingers partially curling. Oh how he wanted to close that distance, stroke her cheek, draw her into a warm embrace, her lips... Again he had to look away, only so she wouldn't catch the longing that settled when his eyes drew over her mouth. "I hope it does snow," he murmured absently. Here, but a million miles away.

Whether he realized it or not, it was his very presence that served as a tonic to her senses. Not only by music, but by the very inches of space between them, was she held on the crest of a euphoric wave. However, oxygen served necessary to her tiny frame, and at the electric snap of his eyes from her own, Christine's bosom heaved a great sigh, barely audible but present in the quivering of her shoulders. "As do I ..."

_By God, do something,_ his conscience cried. _You want her to know of your love, then tell her! You want to kiss her, then do it! Care not of proper etiquette, you are not a part of their society! They made sure of it! All your life when you wanted something you took it. Now you stand there, an awkward boy__: fifty going on fifteen! Look at her!_

There was silence.

An enveloping, oppressive silence settled upon him like a weight. In his absence of mind, he studied the piano without seeing; vacant and oblivious to the berth of pent breath, drawn and shuddering in its exhale from she who stood but a few inches at his fore. His blood, his _soul_ burned for her, and he could only pray that it wasn't lust. That it wasn't some disgusting, blasphemous thing, manifested by imbalanced chemistry wrought and twisted by her mere presence.

He closed his eyes with a slow exhale. _Let it be love, and let it be true._ Turning his head, his softened gaze settled upon her again, seeking out her own. Would he adore her still if she didn't have the voice of an angel? Would he worship her every breath if she stood before him as an indecorous woman? Would he yearn to hold her, kiss her, take her if she was not untouchable?

"It grows late," he stated suddenly, but softly. "You are undoubtedly exhausted from your performance. Shall I prepare you something to eat before you rest? Or perhaps a cup of tea?" Stepping a fraction closer, he leaned to her, his hand drifting past to slowly close the lid of the piano. Gently wood tapped against wood, masking the breath that was taken. With this closeness, this precious moment of near-touch, his head had turned just enough where he'd be able to drink in the natural scent she held, the soaps and oils she might have used during her bath within the wealth of curls.

It was a scent he could remember for all eternity.

It furthered her inner turmoil as the space was closed between them and he was but inches away from her compliant touch. She dared not turn her gaze towards his own, made nervous from what she was assured lay within those golden depths. Her voice quivered as she spoke, a rush of warmth tightening within her breast and traveling down, down to the unspeakable depths which never before had she minded so... "Tea would be all right. I fear I'm much too...exhausted to eat."

She brushed aside her faulty excuse with a breathy laugh. Sliding back slowly, he took a step in retreat before he gave in to the urge to gather up her hair and bury his face within it. Turning, tense, he swallowed to dampen his dry throat. How could it be that the one that could be his salvation, could also be his utter torment?

There were several slow breaths taken before he continued forward, heightening the distance between them, and with each step it seemed as if his insides were being twisted. It was as if his body was trying to convince him to do what he yearned to, even something as simple as a caress of his hand to her cheek.

She wanted tea, and tea he would give. It allowed him time to bring back the shield he had been trying to construct. Confused, he didn't know how to handle these...feelings. He was enthralled by them, excited, yet feared them at the same time. How was he supposed to act? He wanted to pull her close, yet shove her away, wanting to retreat from this unknown sensation. This pleasure combined with such pain.

Exiting the library, he glanced back toward her, then disappeared into the living room, where he was immediately spoken to by one of Ayesha's mews. He ignored her for the time, his long-legged pace taking him to the kitchen where, upon entering, he began working upon the kettle, getting it filled and set to the brazier. Resting his hands to the edge of the counter, he ducked his head between his shoulders and closed his eyes to half lid as he absently watched the flickering of the flames. Wanting attention, the Siamese curled around his feet, arching up high, then landing again upon her front paws, meowing the whole time.

Christine hesitated to follow him immediately, instead seizing the opportunity to calm her twisted nerves. She watched his strides carry him away, her expression tinged with remorse in fear that perhaps she had said something to upset him. Or perhaps this sympathy was but for herself, and why not? She had certainly landed herself, inadvertently, into quite a dilemma.

She turned slightly to eye the piano, her memory leading her away momentarily to the time just seconds before. What emotion was it that so violently clawed within her to be freed? It must have been a sin. Yes, of course! It was a sin, and like all sins could, it could be purged. Shadowed eyes were lifted once more to the door way where he had disappeared, and at last she mustered the composure to follow.

Inching forth slowly, Christine lifted her hands to gather the folds of her dressing robe, the cream material tugged loosely upon her breast and secured with the slender strands of her satin sash. Within the doorway, she observed his profile silently, her eyes darting between his slender frame and that of the feline who beckoned for attention.

Oh, how she _envied _that cat...


	48. Chapter 48

_Coming out of hiatus for an update! _

_Quick thanks to my illustrious beta reader/editor, my readers, and those that made this story grow. You know who you are._

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Oh, how she envied that cat...

_We don't need you here, _her bright eyes seemed to say. _We were perfectly happy before _you_ came._

Mrr," she purred, mewing, and still his attention couldn't be caught, not until she rose upon her hind paws and settled the fore against his leg. Focusing away from the flames, he glanced down toward her, a ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Tension flowed from his shoulders as he lowered to tuck his hands beneath her legs and stomach and she was lifted to be cradled against his chest.

Yes, Christine positively _envied _the princess of his lair. Yet she could not bring herself to display such a foolish jealousy, instead opting to observe this endearing moment as if it were as rare as a double rainbow.

Stroking his cheek along her chocolate covered head, he turned to the doorway, only to stop short when he realized she was standing there. "It will be ready soon," he mentioned. He nodded to the area beyond her shoulder. "Make yourself comfortable, my dear. I will bring the tea out to you."

She was jolted from her complacency by his words, color rushing to her cheeks in embarrassment. She nodded slightly, a child again where once a young woman troubled by the turmoil of her affections. She fled the doorway quickly, emerging again into the great cavern that still held the night's former fascinations and mysteries. As if ... his voice, soothing and luring her into its depths, still echoed somewhere in the shadows.

By softened candlelight, she was devoid of her inner will to fight what she knew would _and should_ consume her; his genius and his glory. She was but a vessel, his mask against the outside world, and through her voice would his music take flight. Christine suddenly felt very small beneath the natural rock formations of his kingdom, and the shadows seemed alive as they swaggered and danced along the water's surface.

Placing the cat down, he turned to the kettle to finish preparing the tea, then place it upon a tray. Balancing it upon one hand, he stole a candle from one of many candelabra and began bringing a bit more light into the dismal gloom. With each resurrection of the candle, his thoughts traveled in one direction or another, though always did they stop upon her again. She was ever present in his mind, it seemed. A plague that he was so unwilling to get rid of. An ailment he would gladly ache from. The irony was enough for a faint smile to tug at the corner of his mouth. Turning, he stepped over to the table that lay before the couch for the tray to be rested upon its surface.

She remained unaware of his presence until the soft clinking of crystal drew her attention upward from blank space. Turning, she moved toward the couch in silence, compressed by the heavy silence. What was there to say that had not already been uttered in the understood silence between them, or through music which held all powers to express what depths no natural words could possibly fathom? She could think of so many things to confess or to question, and yet none at all.

She took her tea in a reserved silence, entirely proper in her etiquette of carefully stirring in her desired amount of sugar and cream just so that the tiny spoon did not disturb the fragility of the porcelain. She rested the delicate utensil on the saucer, drew the cup to her lips carefully as she leaned into the comfort of the couch. _Normal, just as a walk in the park would be_.

_  
_Turning his head, he carefully watched just how much she placed within her tea and filed it away for future reference. Moving closer to the couch, he lowered to its surface and gathered his own cup. The silence was again weighing, more than before, it seemed. Tipping the cup, he ignored the faint tick of porcelain to his mask as he took a sip. As much as he tried to truly ignore it, it was that very sound that made him wish no more.

Lowering the cup to the tray, he rubbed the tip of his tongue against the roof of his mouth, lingering within the taste of the liquid. Languidly he leaned back with all the graceful manner of a monarch. That's what he was, though, wasn't he? A king within his own dark kingdom, and here came the princess, jumping upon the arm of the couch before she climbed down to curl upon his lap. He didn't pet her immediately, which had her begin thumping her head to his stomach. Instead, he thought of just how to break this silence.

Christine's gaze shifted as the feline made her presence known, a smile tugging the taut corners of her lips upward. Placing the cup carefully upon the saucer, each delicate item was placed to the surface of the table before them as she questioned, "Where did you find her?" She'd never seen her breed in the street cats that fought and mewled outside Mama Valerius' back porch.

Her expression showed her genuine interest, though she knew that no means of polite questioning and interest would ever have her gain the favor of his little companion. Funny that she should try, too; to strive to want all that he wanted, or to hold in great esteem all that he loved. Perhaps in her insipid naivety she fancied it would endow her with some higher level of understanding of a world she barely even walked in.

The question posed about Ayesha drew his eyes down to the insistent feline and he brought his fingers in a slow stroke along her back. She purred deeply, arching sharply into his palm. "I found her outside, half buried within the snow. I am guessing that she was to be smuggled and somehow came away from her 'owners.'"Raising his head he turned his gaze over to her, the masked side of his mouth faintly lifting. "She is not used to others. It may take some time for her to accept your presence."

She nodded softly, holding up her hand in a gesture of understanding. "Oh, I know. It's perfectly understandable." Her voice was soft as she spoke, and as it trailed away into momentary silence, her gaze fell on the Siamese. "What's her name?" She lifted her gaze then to his own in polite question, a smile touching her expression as she reached for her cup of tea. Her hands appeared doll-like as she clutched at that porcelain teacup, and the way she brushed aside a strayed curl from her cheek in the same instance gave her what seemed a preternatural grace in even the most mundane of actions.

It was that very action that gathered his attention, to a point where he stalled answering her question. It was only a brief touch, the stroke of her fingertips along her cheek and over the curled lock of her hair, but it was enough for his eyes to fix upon her hand. Oh if she would only touch him like that! Just a casual movement, careless and thoughtless. He didn't wish much, just some signal that she cared. That she needed him beyond her voice lessons.

"Ayesha," he finally spoke, forcing himself to focus upon the conversation more than his idle thoughts. Golden gaze lifted to meet her eyes and there they remained. "It is said that her kind is unseen in France. I believe I was lucky when I came across the beauty."

"Ayesha ..." She repeated the name softly, savoring the way its charm rolled from her lips. She returned the cup to the table, resting her hands upon her lap as a sigh escaped her lips softly. "Will you tell me of your travels now, Erik?" He had promised to, had he not? Before they had begun rehearsal for_ Il Muto_. "And spare no minor detail, please. I want to hear of everything you've seen."

_My travels... _There was plenty that he wanted to keep quiet. Mostly of the times he had been captive and tortured; mentally, physically...emotionally. "Ah...where shall I begin," he questioned himself, nudging Ayesha from his lap. She jumped down and settled on her haunches before beginning to bathe a paw. "I had traveled throughout Europe for a good amount of years. Meeting up with Gypsies and wandering with them. They are a lively bunch. Music, song and dance every night until they could no longer stand from the pure exhaustion. I played my violin for them." He refrained from speaking the full truth; he didn't wish her pity, which he knew he would surely gain if he mentioned being trapped and tortured.

Christine allowed a calm relaxation to over take her, her back settling onto the couch cushions as she listened intently to his story. The sound of his voice accompanied her imagination, one aspect of her that though held captive remained guileless and dreamy, and in his words she could see behind her heavy eyelids the vibrant colors of dress and custom, the sound of a violin, pulsating drums that beat around campfires and reflected off the sides of canvas tents.

As she relaxed, his eyes traveled over her face briefly. A rare warm smile came to rest upon his lips. His own eyes then closed so he could easier dredge up the memories that flickered like picture-shows across his mind's eye. He could paint a picture with his song, perhaps he could do it with words as well. Ethereal, that voice, bringing to life the dreams he had lived.

"Italy, a city of brightly colored houses, spanning rivers instead of roads. Most of the country is akin to an island. They have to travel by boats, akin to the kind I have taken you within." Lacing his fingers together, he settled them against his stomach and tented his thumbs together loosely. "It is said that there is a sleeping dragon beneath Japan. You can see his scales from the highest mountain, the smoke drawing from his slumbering nostrils, and teeth within the crags. If one is lucky, upon midnight hour, he flies above the heavens, casting great shadows over the land."

Her eyes came to a steady close, the slender weight of her arm lifted to rest upon the arm of the couch. Her cheek pursued the gesture, the baby fat that still clung to her youth cushioning the press to her forearm as she lingered between reality and the dream his words wove within in her mind. The ornate gondolas pushed through the narrow passageways of candlelit Venetian canals came to life here in his story, and she clung to each fleeting portrait her imagination granted as dream weighed heavy upon her reclining form, a smile tingeing her lips.

"Then there is Russia, where I was a magician for the Zhar. I performed great feats of illusion. Made one of his wives disappear." The corner of his mouth lifted wryly at that, then smoothed over to a more suitable smile when a slew of her breathy laughter followed his remark. Oh he recalled completely when he had done such a thing. He was absolutely furious and only found her when Erik was told to come to Persia. "A great land, often covered by snow and forests. At night you can hear the howls of the wolves that often run the lands. And the skies. Ah, they are covered with heavenly lights, spanning from one color to the next. A sifting rainbow that travels as far as the eye can see. Ghostly and mystical. To see them is to be in awe. A breathtaking sight, especially along a backdrop of darkness and glinting stars."

So many things he had seen, experienced, surely had _felt._ She had seen but the countryside of her native land in her travels with her beloved father, touched the sands of the sea that bordered the region and ventured to the flatlands in search of the goblins her father told her of. Christine had only heard of such places from her father's stories, and there was something in Erik's voice and manner that reminded her of her dear Papa. _Only, he's gone now, Christine ..._ A sigh parted her lips, a sudden sadness creasing her brow though she continued to listen, taking comfort in the sound of his voice.

"Then there is Persia. Sand glistens like gold, spreading further than the lights over Russia. Murderous, unless you find the hidden cities. I remained within one of them, summoned by the Shah to build a palace. The city looked drab upon the outside, though the closer you come to the center the more grand it becomes. Buildings glint white against the pale blue eyes, gold catching the eye, and the colors... bright and far more numerous than those in Italy. Silk is in abundance there. The Khanum wore a different outfit a day, never the same. It is said she burns them once she wears them." And he wouldn't place it past that detestable woman, either.

What could she fear in him when his voice breached the grief that enshrouded her heart and coaxed her soul into submission? Perhaps that was the fear itself, to feel affection for a man so cloaked in darkness and everything unlike her world above. _Unlike Raoul. _But he was a gentleman, was he not? Had he made any advances that one could presume were questionable? Granted she had felt in those terse moments between them that his eyes alone served as the serpent within this ironic Eden ... taking all that the glowing golden orbs wanted from her body and trusting heart. And in his travels, in those years he had wandered, so had her heart been in search of this very soul next to her.

"The Shah was a surprising sight. Ruler of a country, and yet no older than yourself. Such power handled by someone so young. No father to account for, but a mother who..." no, he couldn't speak of the truth, of what that woman put him through. His insides twisted at the memory and he looked away from her placid face as scores of others came into his mind, each of them having met their death by the tortures he provided, or by the loop of his own lasso. Did he regret killing them? Yes and no. There was no honor in taking helpless human lives. With the others, though, it was all a matter of life and death. If he didn't kill, then he would have taken their place. "...used to be greatly entertained by my tricks. After I left Persia, I returned to this area, traveling around Asia and Europe again before I returned to France."

The remainder of her tea had gone cold by now, but little did she mind. His voice alone was the warming elixir to her senses, the shawl in which she wrapped herself within as she listened intently, feverishly clinging to his tale. Sleep had yet to capture her and her eyes opened slowly to gaze out into the infinite space of this moment, her expression that of a dream state. Her jaw relaxed, the delicacy of her profile accentuated by the abundance of curls that fell against her porcelain skin. She was curious to know how he had come about dwelling beneath the Opera Garnier but did not dare to interrupt, instead canting her neck to better gaze upon the masked proportion of his face.

"I had heard news of Charles Garnier building the Paris Opera, something I had made plans for within my youth. He...had gotten a hold of them somehow. I had sought him out for some other business other than to become his partner." _Such as kill him._ "I helped him build the opera house, and when it was finished...I made my home here. My last resting place. I have become too old to travel, too tired..." _I simply had nothing to live for anymore. _

Christine perked with his mention of his assistance in the building of the Opera. She was astonished by this confession, awed by his unending genius. Painter, sculptor, composer, _and_ architect. Surely an Angel of Music, for who or what else could find promise in a ballet rat?

He turned his head to glance over to her, and the way she seemed so relaxed, so comfortable around him, within his presence... the sight took him aback within its simplicity. Overthrown for several seconds, he finally regained his composure, his gaze drifting to the flickering of the nearest candle. "I have heard great operas here, and I pray that perhaps one of my own will be played upon the stage."

Her eyes came alive in the candlelight, and though exhausted by the hours previous, she remained attentive to his every word. "What about your _Don Juan Triumphant_? Perhaps you could...well, I don't know...speak to the managers?" Oh, but she knew that things were most certainly different for him than for a normal man. And yet...why? Why should his outward appearance sway the opinions others had of the beauty inside? Her offer was an innocent one, and her eyes conveyed the encouragement she offered him.

"No," he stated firmly, then after a sigh he shook his head. "_Don Juan Triumphant_ is not to be heard by anyone. Paris could not tolerate the depth of such a song, the passion I have placed into it. The blood, sweat and tears that has poured upon those pages. They would find disgust, at most it is because they cannot stand to look upon the passion in themselves. They are so enclosed by propriety that they could not see the forest for the trees." Making a dismissive gesture during this explanation, he set his hand down again, the frustration practically seeping from him. Pressing his palm against the seat, he rose from the couch with a boneless grace and slid his thin hands into his pockets. "No...it will be another opera. One that can be appreciated."

"I see." Though she could hardly understand his reasoning behind his decision, she did not dare to question, instead took his standing cue to rise herself, ready for sleep to overtake her at last. She did not immediately wish to dismiss herself, so instead leant to retrieve her chilled tea from the table. She felt compelled to change the subject, strangely troubled by the mention of the opera he kept so safeguarded from the world. And why?

She did not trouble herself with her thoughts but instead spoke softly, musing as she watched him. "Such things you have seen." She gave a soft laugh before continuing, "I've seen nothing but the surrounding streets of the Opera Garnier since my father passed away." Her smile died slowly with the mention and she turned, making for the kitchen as silently as she had come.

"None of it compares to what remains here," he stated quietly as she moved away from him. Perhaps too quietly for her to hear. When she moved away he glanced over toward her bedroom, then back to the kitchen. She was going to sleep, perhaps she would not go exploring. _Tomorrow_, he reminded himself. _Tomorrow I'll remove the mannequin._ For now it and the trio of mirrors – one of which was shattered – showing it at all angles was covered by a thick curtain of black.

Glancing down toward the tray he decided he would put that away later. He'd have plenty of time, it wasn't as if he was going to sleep any time soon. Lowering to a sit he rested back, crossing one leg over the other. Raising the cup from the tray, he dispassionately drank the last of the tepid brew, awaiting her return.

Within the kitchen, her task was an easy enough one. Moving to the sink, she emptied the contents into the bowl and set her cup and saucer atop the counter, moving again towards the door. A yawn overtook her and she lifted one lazy palm to shield it as she entered again into the massive cavern. The candlelight had again begun to die and the haze which now personified the dreamlike atmosphere furthered her exhaustion as she watched him politely press to a stand with her return.

"Goodnight then." Awkward. Christine moved past him towards the door that led to her darkened bedchamber, quarters prepared comfortably to suit her. Within the doorway she paused, turning to grant him one final glance, even a smile before she disappeared into the depths of the grotto.

"Goodnight, Christine." Her smile was enough to illuminate the darkness better than any amount of candles he could place within the lair, and he found the corner of his own mouth lifting faintly. When the door was shut, he breathed out slowly, releasing what tension in his shoulders. Most, but never all. He couldn't recall a time he had actually completely relaxed.

For a few scant moments his thoughts went to her likeness, hidden beneath the velveteen tarp, and shrouded within wedding garb. What was he thinking to purchase something of that nature? Was he truly wishing to do nothing but torture himself? And the ring! Lifting his hand he captured the band of onyx and silver between his fingers and turned it gently around his pinky. Dreams and impossible fancies. Yes, he was surely mad to believe that he could live a normal life.

Dropping his hand and approaching his organ, he gathered the splayed parchments of his opera; the ones he didn't toss into the fire just yesterday. Bringing them into the library, he sought to get some work done upon the libretto while she slept; his playing kept low so she wouldn't be subjected to such passionate music.

The illuminating light from the cavern died upon the threshold of the spacious grotto, leaving its expanse dark save for the single candelabrum that burned low in one corner. Its warmth was lost in the enveloping shadows, though it lived on to cast its dreary, hopeless light over the bed and nightstand that stood at the center of the cave-like chamber. The rich Persian carpet beneath her stocking-clad feet offered shield from the cold floors as she moved towards the great bed. What drew her attention to the bedstand was the music box, the monkey adorned in his fine Persian robes perched atop, poised to play his cymbals at will.

A whimsical nature overcame Christine and she flew immediately to his lonely side, worked the crank at the base of the box slowly, and sat back into the velveteen coverlet to indulge herself in his melody. A sad composition she had found herself humming just days after her first venture into this alternate world. She would have to inquire as to the melody in the morning, she could not now. Exhaustion plagued her as it often did in his overpowering presence.

Lying back into the folds of the down mattress, Christine drifted with only the beating of her heart and the promise that she would again hear his voice in her sleep.

After being caught off guard the first time, he tried hard not to let himself drown in his music as he practiced and wrote. Notes now and again broken for the quilled pen to scrawl across the old parchment within red splashes of color. Eventually he hit an end like a brick wall, too mentally exhausted to go on, though he wanted to. There were only a few pages that he had managed to scroll before he pressed it aside and regarded the library.

This plan he had to keep his voice silent was going to be a difficult one, he knew. For even as he wandered his home there was a low thrumming hum in his voice. Music was far too much a part of his life, too deeply ingrained within his very blood, his soul, to be ignored.

A bath was called for, needed, then afterwards a comfortable silken robe of Asian make was settled about his deceptively thin shoulders. Slacks also worn to conform to modesty. He gazed upon her door quietly, tempted to enter and simply sit next to her bed, but that wouldn't be proper. _Wouldn't be proper_, he chuckled. _Just how many times have you watched her from behind the glass? Just how would going in there be different? You held no regard to her privacy then save for turning away as she dressed. _It was because she didn't know he was there.

He had to pry himself from that spot to return to his playing, but just an hour later, the door cracked open and a curious glance peeked through the slot into the shadowed room.

She was a true vision when she slept. In her waking hours she was charming, no doubt of it. Innocence was a virtue, and she wore it well upon her sleeve. But in rest, in such a vulnerable requirement of an everyday life, heaven itself could not boast such an angel.

The candelabrum retained its dim glow, shadows splaying upon her delicate features. Her lips were parted in rest, breath drawn in with the subtle rise of her bosom, exhaled with the occasional distinction of some soft vocal expression of a dream. One of him, perhaps? Or Raoul...

Even in rest, she was never to be free of that devotion which drove him on to love her, to adore her, even if he found her to be still the immature and trusting little Lotte' in the house by the sea. Always believing whatever she was told, even of Angels of Music.

Sometime in her slumber, she pulled the coverlet over her legs and abdomen. The rich mahogany melded to her every curve, sharply contrasting the white of her dressing robe and corset. Her curls provided a curtain over her neck and cheeks. She most certainly was an idyllic starlet to present to Paris. Most certainly nothing like La Carlotta. No, this prima donna was a softer diva, her voice just as beautiful as her features and the soul within.

_Go back to your music, Erik. _Such confusion! One moment his conscience was telling him to go in, and the next telling him to retreat! He glanced away from her, his eyes drawn to the stone at his feet, then again it returned to the vision of beauty and innocence. His Persephone. He pressed the door open a bit more, his head entering just enough so he could glance over toward the shrouded mirrors, and that sealed his decision.

He slipped further inside, cracking the door no more than needed for this blasphemous action, and upon cat's feet he approached, only to be detoured again by the sight that lay among velvet as dark as the roses he had so often settled in her room.

_Just for a moment, that is all. She will never know. _Dampening his suddenly dry lips, he shifted from one foot to the other, then slowly propelled himself forward, closer to the bed. Fingers ran slowly along the shielding gauze, lowered upon one side of the bed, and pausing when it came to the opening, he remained just behind the curtain, as if it would hold him at bay. It didn't.

He sank along side of the bed as muted gold ran over her features and the way her hair splayed carelessly across the sheets. With ill concealed disdain he glanced to the coverlet. It was surely possible to be jealous of something, for he truly wished he was that unfeeling piece of cloth.

The delicacy of her being was undeniable, as if she herself were a porcelain doll. And despite the hands that held her, from the brute of Buquet to the awe and holy reverence of this mystery at her side ... to the tenderness and devotion of a young vicomte, she was forever a vulnerable innocent. And yet, had the two latter souls to breach the walls of her mourning heart need be mutually exclusive? Could she not, as he had said, learn to love what lay just beyond the shield of a mask?

Even in dreams she was riddled with her indecision, longing for something so unspeakable in her eyes that her brow even furrowed in a show of her troubled slumber. Her neck arched slightly, ruffling the solitude of her curls and exposing the flesh of her cheek to an awaiting hand. Her movement was a slight one, barely above the stir of a gentle sigh, but all the more exquisite it made the shadow dances upon her features.

Oh, what a siren's beckoning that single movement was! Was it not often that her soul obeyed to some unspoken cry? His own soul found no mercy in the beckoning exposure of pristine flesh. Nails bit deep into his palms, then loosened in a splay that brushed his fingers against shaped wood and cloth alike. He had meant to press up, to move away, flee before he did something composed of complete idiocy.

Yet he was frozen solid within that half lifted stance.

She was untouchable, he had to remind himself of this. It did nothing but make that urge stronger. Afraid to touch her skin with his own, it was the back of his nails that pushed aside a curled lock, easing it away from the pale flesh of her cheek. Betraying fingers didn't stop, they grazed back down, and pads followed the path of her jaw. He closed his eyes, savoring that fleeting moment of contact, as well as fighting against the sting that lay beneath lids. Only in her sleep would he brave something so simplistic – yet so shattering. Only in her sleep did he know she wouldn't look upon him in horror, and maybe...just maybe, she would dream of a perfect Erik.

That single brush of his touch was enough to urge her countenance upward, obliging his indulgence and granting a silent plea for more. That unspoken wish was felt throughout even her slumbering form like a cry in the dark. Just an insignificant thing, just a _touch_. Every inch ached for its next ill-fated temptation as her cheek turned into his touch, a hot breath extinguished against his cool palm. A softened sound drew from somewhere deep within her slumbering form, a ghost of a smile raising the edges of her lips.

It was utterly silent in the room, yet his heart gave a rapid report that he was utterly hoping she wouldn't hear. _What are you dreaming that makes you smile, Christine? _The very tip of his thumb coaxed over her lower lip, bravery settling, steeled in sure gestures. Tilting his head slightly, he drew his hand away slowly. Her skin burned his cool flesh, the mere contact electric and tingling. He had to leave, damn the mannequin, he would get it later. He had to leave before he did something he would regret.

The tenderness in his touch was the evidence of his love, and yet in slumbering hours she would never know of this encounter, nor upon waking remember with neither clarity nor a distant fog. She wouldn't know of him coming to her, worshiping and hating the coverlet that lay upon her reclining form, and the strength he drew from her presence that he needed to live on another day.

_No, what I love best, Lotte said ... _

She did not respond when his touch fled her skin, but rather appeared to slumber even more peacefully than before its chill.

_... Is when I'm asleep in my bed ... _

It was his voice and his alone she dreamt of.

_... And the Angel of Music sings songs in my head._


	49. Chapter 49

_So. I've been sitting here, wondering if I should attempt posting another chapter or not, and it seems like my readers read my mind. I like to thank the ones that recently gave me reviews and even private messages, and along with them, the ones that have done the same long ago._

_I know it's been a very long time since my last chapter, and perhaps some of you have become discouraged, but I'm hoping that this makes up for something, to at least let you all know that I haven't given up writing completely. With my out-of-the-country move coming up, doctor crap, a severe writer's block, and a heap of personal issues, I just either haven't had time, or haven't been inspired._

_If I was able to write in those types of slumps and not come up with inane drivel, I would._

_Either way, maybe this will be a kick in the butt for me, who knows. If not, it might be some time before the next chapter, but I assure you that this fic (as well as the others I have written) will come to an end in their own time, and at their own length._

_49 chapters, oy..._

_Anywho, enjoy, and please excuse any errors I might have missed. I'm without a beta-reader at this time, and being so close to the story, I might've overlooked some things._

_

* * *

_She awoke feeling refreshed, if a little groggy when her eyes found darkness instead of the light of day seeping through the lace curtains of her comfortable room at Mama Valerius'. This did not trouble her, no, but set her at ease; she was assured that nothing had changed, and that this sweet spell still held her entranced. 

Christine sat up upon the down mattress and stretched, consulting the light that seeped from beneath then emerged from the covers to carry herself to the door. Within the threshold, heavy eyes ventured around the cavern slowly, in search of the other human soul that would, in the weeks she promised him, be her one source of..._everything_.

One could almost gain a sense of deja vu upon looking out into the lair's living room. Dressed in his robe and a comfortable pair of slacks, he hunched over his organ, blackened feather furiously scribbling over aged parchments, whisking lines and dots of red along the surface. False strands dangled off to the sides of his face, partly framing both flesh and porcelain.

Though there was a difference to this picture.

Not only did the smell of candle smoke and wax fill the room, but of food as well for upon the low table was a plate covered by a silver dome. He didn't know just how long it would take for her to leave her room and didn't want the food to become cold. It was a normal, healthy breakfast; eggs, bacon, toast and a bowl of fruit. Tea was also in a pot nearby. Pausing in the writing, one thin hand settled upon the keys of the instrument, not playing but grazing along the surface in a lover's caress, pantomiming the notes that he read.

The fresh aroma came as a pleasant surprise against the normal stale stench of melancholy candle wax and mold. She spotted him at his organ, bent intently as he had been the night ... _The night you stole from him the last dignity the poor soul in him had. _Her eyes slipped closed briefly, her very expression realizing the disgust in herself and even in that face that lingered always behind her eye lids.

How she wanted to run then; to him, or from him? It was a desperate struggle, a maddening inner war, to proclaim an adoration or an abhorrence for this fiendish nightingale! Had he not kept his true self a secret? _A lie? _Had he not, inadvertently or not, taken advantage of that simplicity which compelled her to believe so feverishly that he, _a man, _was her savior, her Angel of Music?

Dreams are for children, Christine, and you're old enough to know better...

And yet, she could not, for all of her frustration and her temperamental state, hate him. It was his voice, perhaps. Or the strength in his presence, his very demeanor that intoxicated her so, made her stay even when her sense of reason cried for escape. In a glance, his control was sealed. In a touch, she was pliant to his whim. She thought it necessary to make her presence known and thus the first slew of words softly lifted from her lips. "Good morning."

With his pause, at first one would think he heard her, but then the tapered tip of the quill was tapped into the ink well that rested off to the side of the shelf like surface of the organ. Raising his hand from the instrument he pressed a few strands back behind his ear, then shifted the hairline out of habit more than necessity. Blindly he reached out for his cup, only to stop short when his hand decided to make a detour to the keys where a few notes were played, lingering as if tasting them for the first time and wanting to gain the full flavor before it completely melted away.

A faint nod to himself, and he rested the quill aside for fingers to lace and arms to raise above his head. Tipping it from one side to the other to crack his neck and loosen the muscles, it was that that finally drew him from the depths of music's hold. Lowering his arms, he pressed the bench back and rose to a stand only to pause when he turned around, catching sight of her in the doorway of her room. _How long had she been standing there? _

"Good morning..." Glancing toward the table, he tightened the belt of his robe then motioned over with an almost too elegant gesture of his hand. "I have made you breakfast."

"Yes, I see. Thank you..." She didn't know how to respond to such an act, such a show of hospitality from a man she oft felt damned social standings and modesty to reveal in her a more primal and impulsive standard of living. Like he, Christine reached for the sash of her robe, tightening it around her abdomen as if it would offer some decency. The fabric was of lace, and a fine one at that. Little was left to the imagination, which only furthered her shyness and spread a rich hue of color to the curve of her cheeks.

For a moment he had forgotten just why he stood up, and recalled his tea. Gathering the cup in hand he stepped over to the table, and hooking the handle within the curl of slender fingers, he filled her cup first, then took time to add the proper sweetening before he went on to his own.

"I believe it will snow tonight," such normal conversation, it was an ill attempt, but it was better than the silence that tended to rest in a heavy shroud around the lair. "Perhaps it will do so upon our time out?" Melodic voice lifted some within question, and settling to the end of the nearby couch, he tipped the cup to his lips for a slow swallow of the peppermint scented brew.

"Oh, I do hope so." Her response was eager, her eyes aglow with his mention of the weather. She quickly recoiled, almost as if burnt, from her sudden display of childish excitement. Not that she was fearful or even restricted in herself. No. Simply because in that moment of her simpering state, she missed the 'ballet rats'. Even little Meg Giry, dear friend that she was, and her excitable and bubbly ways. Ways that hardly suited Christine, despite the nearness of the girls' ages. Grief had made her a young woman far before her time, and yet so like a child she remained in her polite maidenhood. She bent to take her tea cup in hand, settling on the opposite end of the couch as she carefully tested the contents. Just as she liked it.

"You enjoy snow," he stated more than questioned. He wouldn't disagree with the love of the weather at this time, even if he didn't make it a habit to go outside. Winter was one of those seasons where he could go out of his haven and into the streets during the day. Bundled and with his face mostly covered, none would question. It was the time he could go outside and feel the sun upon his face, the snow upon his tongue tip, melting from the heat.

He turned some so he'd be able to face her, his back rested in the joining crook of back cushion and arm. So many feet between them, it might as well have seemed like miles. For a moment the ever tremulous gaze drew vacant as he looked upon her, recalling to mind the traitorous caress he had given her yielding skin. If only she was awake to know the depths of such a simple touch, of what it meant to him. Perhaps too much.

She gave a smile as one would give towards any long ago memory, her eyes filled with the distant reverie of her sweet, departed father. "It reminds me of my father. When I was a child, he'd always bundle me up until I looked like a great big ball of wool before we'd go out and play in it." She remebered that, if nothing else. Her face grew sad yet her smile remained, a nostalgic aura deep within her wide eyes.

"He died around this time, when I was six. He left me with Professor Valerius and his wife, whom I know as Mama Valerius. She's widowed now." Such unspoken sadness that riddled her history, yet she did not cry. "He made arrangments with Madame Giry for me to study in the Conservatoire. It was his dying wish."

There was an instant – a brief instant – that he was jealous of the Madame for meeting her before he had been given the chance. She was but a child then, only a third, or so, of the age she was now. What interest would he have in someone so young? A flicker of memory came to mind, songs to a nameless, weeping child, soothing to a comfortable sleep and he regarded her curiously. Shaking his head softly, he dashed away the idea then gathered his cup to bring to his lips.

Though there were questions upon his tongue, they were left in silence for he felt there was nothing to be said after such a stinging topic. There was only twice that he had felt grief, one of which was more out of pity than sadness with the death. Even now he couldn't help but close his eyes at the irony of his disappearance during mothers redemption. Another drink, and the cup would be settled upon the darkness of pressed slack leg. And finally he spoke. "Then I hope it does snow, simply for that memory."

She granted herself another sip of her tea before she leaned forward, placing the cup upon its saucer. Her eyes darted to the silver tray and dome, the small of her hands placed carefully to its silver grasp, uplifted in one quick motion to allow the escape of the rich aroma. It took all lengths of composure to not devour in one frenzied instant all of the goodness he'd prepared for her. She gave him a smile of gratitude from over the arch of her extended arm and shoulder, delicately taking in hand the utensils laid out on the table for her service. She did not wish to speak of her father again, or of times passed, for fear of her wavering emotions.

Wisely he took the cue of her silence, drawing to his own as he drank the last of the tea from the porcelain hold of the cup. Leaning forth and resting the cup to the saucer, he pressed to a stand with a brush of hands along expensive silk, ridding their clinging clump around his waist and thighs to drop down in an ankle-licking caress. Sliding his hands into his pockets he stepped over to the organ and once near, began collecting the music that was wildy strewn across the shelf.

"Do you believe you are prepared for _Il Muto_?" Silence broken after a few moments of its weight, he glanced over his shoulder toward her.

She had taken a healthy bite of her eggs when he questioned her. She answered after a moment, uncertainty in her voice as she shifted her eggs around with her fork. "I will in time." _In time. _For now, she was scared stiff at the thought. Not for the challenges within the character – though that did contribute much to her dismay – but more so to the challenge La Carlotta would most assuredly present.

The corps de ballet was all a tiffy after Carlotta's 'scene' that Christine was allowed to finish her run in _Hanibal _only because Carlotta would then return to re-claim her position, and with great promotion. And it could be counted on that even at this very moment, the diva was addressing every god in her Heavens that Christine stayed absent from the scene.

Tapping the sheets against the shelf, they were settled into a leathered satchel, only to be bound away as if they would come alive to devour them both. Was that not what the music did? Devour and consume with such dangerous passion? Smoothing his fingers against the surface, he turned and stepped down from the dias the organ was elevated upon.

"In time.. There are but only a few weeks before the production. I believe you will be ready. If you are not currently. Your voice has greatly improved since I had first heard it." He paused, wolven gaze settling upon her. "Grown."

His ability to lead her thoughts from all weighing matters of the world was really uncanny. As if his voice alone was the gentle brush of his fingertips to her chin, urging her to match her gaze with his own. And she did, obligingly. Her expression grew solemn, momentarily entranced; suspended high on a wave of blooming rapture until by whatever whim he so choose would it be let down once more.

She remained frozen in her spot upon the couch cushions, her head drawn over her shoulder to gaze towards him as she drank in, for what felt the first time, the man before her. He was hardly impoverished for a soul who dwelled beneath the ground; pale, but that was to be expected, yet the brilliant contrast of his porcelain mask to the rest of his pigment gave him a much more fulfilled glow – or was that the candlelight?

The glow of each tiny flame gave everything a preternatural glow, yes, but it seemed to Christine as she looked upon him that the air around him seemed to bend and spark with a power beyond that of this terrestrial ball. From the twin embers of his eyes towards the thin stem of his neck, past the wall of his chest, to each sturdy leg.

It was frightening how drawn she could find herself becoming to him.

He was well aware of her eyes upon him, for his own had yet to leave her. Just what was she thinking to have her gaze linger? Was she reliving the removal of the mask? No, her eyes weren't brimming with the horror that he had viewed that night. It was an almost uncomfortable, intent regard.

Uncomfortable for him.

What other flaws could she see beyond what the mask held? Did she think it improper that he stood there clad in robe and slacks? That couldn't be it; for she was in but her gown and robe of soft, welcoming lace. Standing still, his physical appearance was considered majestic, and when he moved.. it was to a lone melody that only he had the pleasure of hearing, one that was brought to life in measured, passionate cadence upon his very limbs.

It was to the table that he crossed, drawing close to her, but never moving any nearer than he had  
to. It had been his intention to take up the pot and refill his cup, but he ended up pausing before her. The moth again trapped within the heat of the flame. For several days she was to be his and his alone. This was an exciting prospect, for no other had ever spent so long of a time within his lair. But also exciting because she wouldn't have to see that boy. Perhaps, in this time – their time – she would be able to forget about his bright eyes and equally bright, young smile. The utter _perfection_ that he was. Something that he could never, ever offer her.

He was flawed, straight down to the marrow.

Her eyes followed him, and had she the sense .. the state of mind to realize it, she would have found him much closer than before. Had his breath been words, she would have clung to each syllable with the fading vigor of one ailed by disease though praying for one last redeeming breath to save them. The music she seemed to always hear in his presence pulsed without fail through her veins, aching to be released with this burden of unattainable clarity. She needed his voice around and within her, and with trembling passion it was that she made her request; "Sing to me?"

Would he ever know the depths beyond such simple words? Could he comprehend or even dare to venture beyond the barriers of her infernal innocence? No, never. He could not, and yet there she was...vulnerable, endearing, a testimony to the Divine Temptation; the serpent or Eve?


	50. Chapter 50

_Traveling's over and done with... I hope. Thought I'd get another chapter out, but I misjudged myself. The urge to write is steadily coming back, so look for updates to my other stories!_

_Whether it's "in the near future" or not is left to be seen. Damnable writer's block._

* * *

The one thing she had to ask for, was the one thing he wanted to refrain from doing.

He wanted her with him because it was her wish, not because she would be lured and coaxed by the sound of his voice. Though stern he held before her, shoulders tense with the subduing of.. something, back straight and chin slightly aloft with a muted pride, eccentric eyes softened with that request, and he glanced away. Tongue's tip coursed against the roof of his mouth, running along ridged and smooth flesh in turn. Then closing his eyes he nodded, turning to her again as he opened his eyes. bringing her again into the line of his sight.

_Just one song, and that is it._

He drew closer to both her and the couch, only to lower, but not upon its cushioned seating. It was the floor that he rested upon, legs folded and side against the couch's front, prostrate at her feet. Again his eyes closed and drawing in a slow breath, he brought a song to the forefront of his mind, one that spoke volumes, words that he could never truly give to her.

"While floating high above I hear you speak my name. Your voice so sweetly calling me to come.. to you again." In song, it could be claimed as someone else's, protecting him, his heart, from rejection.

"I stole into your dreams, I touched your soul to mine. I gave you music and soon you must rest here with me.. Eternally. We'll share.. paradise. We'll share.. paradise." Repeated were the lyrics, softer and within a gentle lilt. They rolled off of his tongue easily, sweetly. Then after a moments settle of a hum, he continued.

"The tiny spark you give also set my heart aflame.. That all the songs you hear me sing, are echoes of your name. Our voices blend forever, ascending high above. One day I'll fly as high with you, and in Heaven's arms we'll be.. Eternally.."

Christine was numb to all feeling but that of the growing sensation that his heavenly voice sent throughout her body, starting as a soft hum at the base of her spine and spread like wildfire. She leaned toward him, inclined to press closer as each note carried her along through a waking dream that filled her soul with a strange, sweet melody unlike any she'd ever heard on earth. Not even her father's music could inspire such a depth of feeling, nor the devotion and childhood love of Raoul to set her heart to pounding as it did now.

Her trembling fingers arched forth to trace delicately along his smooth jaw, almost blindly for by inspection her eyes had closed and tears now riddled the surface of her flushed cheeks.

A flicker of pause evoked by the passing of her fingers along his jaw, and he forced himself to keep singing. His eyes remained closed, refusing to look upon her. Too much emotion did that gaze often have, too revealing, and not only did he want to veil the heat of heart, he didn't want to see if she was lured more by her own desire, or that the song was inspiring, settling in an enthralling shroud. He was too leery of stopping, afraid that she might recoil from him. But he had to stop, his throat was trying to constrict too much. Slowly he pulled from the song, a whispered hum found in his throat again before an illusion-shattering silence passed through the embrace of the lair.

Her fingertips burned with the electricity that passed through this long lived touch, each inch of her warmed hands tracing the contours of his cheek and jaw, an ill-fated foreboding that neither, poor souls that they were, could see. It was only upon songs ending that her touch faded, her tiny hand recoiled to rest in her lap as the other lifted to wipe at the stream of tears that marred her cheek. Her chin lowered, her countenance shaded by her abundance of curls as they fell upon her cheeks.

_Why me? What set me out from the rest, gave me the right to be in the presence of such beauty? _Humbled and bewildered, Christine remained silent for a long while, reflecting on her state and taking the silence to regain her composure even as it slipped away.

It had been predicted, known to be.. so why did it bring such an ache? He should have been prepared for the withdrawal. Swallowing gently, he slowly cracked his eyes open, resting the molten gaze upon her in utter and complete silence. The quiet he was used to, but this.. this seemed too stifling, especially after such a veiled confession. Was she so drawn into just the voice where the words would have been lost? He prayed that was so, yet at the same time, he hoped that it hadn't been the case. While she regained her composure, he sought out to do the same, yet still he rested at her feet, akin to an abused dog simply waiting upon a bated breath for the first sign of affection, of acceptance.

Her silence was one of an almost holy reverence, too ashamed to speak in fear her voice would shatter the perfection of the immediate memory of his song. Her meek and unworthy voice could never hope to achieve such heavenly perfection. So it was that she remained silent for a long while, consumed in the overwhelming emotions of a joy beyond her dreams and yet a sadness that rested heavy upon her heart.

A beaten, shunned Spaniel at her feet he was, and she was much too self absorbed with her misery to even grant him the affection he so desired. Conflicted? An understatement if one was ever heard. She spoke at last, her voice void of any sign of her dismay – thankfully enough, for she did not wish to upset him – as her fair and glistening eyes lifted to find his. "I ... I should very much like a bath ... before we go out. Perhaps a change of clothes, as well?"

Breath drawn, a fleeting thing when he met his eyes with her own, and slowly he dipped his chin in an assenting nod. Unfolding his legs, he rose to a statuesque stand, took a moment to dust off his garments as well as straighten up both the clothing and his hair. Dual palms smoothed uselessly over the false strands that glistened with a soft sheen – there was already no hair out of place. He stepped back away from her, gathering his cup and saucer to place upon the silver of the tray.

"As you wish. You will find several warm cloaks within your wardrobe. I shall prepare as well." He couldn't very well go outside in just a robe and slacks, now could he? Though he might be used to the chill in the underground manse, the air outside would be enough to bring at least the faintest of shivers. "Hurry now. Before time neglects us from the night's first snowfall."

She stood as well, longing for the distance between them that kept her at a safe restraint. Quickened foot fells led her silently to her room, once again merging into the depthless shadows of the small grotto. Moving towards the(single candelabra that offered its last dying flames, she reawakened many of the extinguished towers of wax with their fading partners, then continued into the next room, a smaller one with its own lion clawed bath tub and wash basin, to do the same.

Approaching a chestnut wardrobe that spanned from ceiling to floor in the far corner, the double doors were opened to reveal, as he'd promised,(several heavy, hooded cloaks. Christine brushed her fingers idly over the fabric, venturing on along the length of the shelf to find two gowns, both of which appeared to be a perfect fit for her lithe dancers frame. She retrieved(one of a deep green, the cuffs lined with creme lace and the mantle discreet in its depth. As for the bath – well, that would require much more work than she wanted to exert. So, she drew up a basin of warm water, washed her neck(and ears as Mama Valerius always instructed, and dressed herself silently.

The small room was void of any reflective surface, and she would have been peeved by this revelation had she been the foolish girl to bother over small trifles such as hair or rouged cheeks. She did not require the color, she(would have find, for her porcelain skin drew an ethereal glow from some presence beyond that of the worldly sort.

The gown molded elegantly to her small frame; its rich forest hue bringing forth the tinge of her pink cheeks and lips, the lily white of her neck and collar bone, each slender finger as they fell against the gathered waist and smoothed across the folded bustle at the back. It was expensive and there could be no doubt of it, just as there could be no(discussion of the wealth in the heavy cloak she retrieved from the wardrobe.

Moving into her chambers, she drew the cloak over her shoulders and fastened the tiny gold clasp at her throat easily, her eyes admiring the make of the(ebony material. Moments later, she emerged into the cavern once more, void of that heavenly hue in her dressing robe and corset, but hardly of the angelic presence she held.

One could have almost mistook him for an onyx statue with how still he stood before the fireplace, looking down into the flickering flames. Upon hearing her door open he moved slightly, his head rising for him to glance over his shoulder, his eyes half shielded beneath the wide brim of his fedora; it had taken him very little time to dress, and had been waiting patiently for her arrival.

He looked upon her slowly, then turning around he stepped from the hearth toward the middle of the cavernous room. She looked warm enough, and he nodded faintly in approval. It would not do well for her to become sick and end up ruining her voice. He would ensure she didn't sing if that happened, and would inform the managers of her rest as well. Flicking a nearly unseen lever, he glanced toward the portcullis as it growled to a lift, slowly ascending until it would allow their exit.

"Shall we," he questioned, looking over toward her again as he came to a pause near the dripping gate of metal. Vines of moss strung over its bottom, draping curtains of green that clung for dear life.

She moved from the threshold of her room, down the small flight of stairs to the cavern floor, and quickly made her way towards him. He was her guide, after all, and in more ways than just one. She had entrusted him two weeks, of(song or of budding companionship, and it seemed that just when she'd felt the first flickering of regret upon promising him this time, he'd concluded to take her out. She would no doubt be grateful for the fresh air and the snow(that she hoped would fall, so naturally there was a lightness in her step that served to promote her eagerness.

As cloak and gown rustled softly against the floor several inches behind her, so did an obliging nod stir the nest of(curls left to fall free round her neck and shoulders. Her hands reached forth to draw the hood of her cloak atop the crown of her head, its hem licking at her cheeks to safe guard from the coming cold. She stood awkwardly aside him for a moment, perhaps awaiting the escort of his arm. It was an habitual trait, and she quickly remembered herself and simply awaited his direction.

When she was close enough he started off along side of the water logged path, one that would lead them through a labyrinth of 'rivers.' There would only be one he planned on following, and as he walked he gathered both a lantern and a candle from the spots as they were passed. Opening up the glass to the lantern and using the tiny flame to light the old wick, he blew out the candle and carelessly dropped the waxen column to the floor. Turning the dial to bring a bit more light, he glanced back to her to ensure she was still following. She wouldn't have any trouble keeping up, since he had chosen to illuminate the way.

"Perhaps the lake will be frozen over," he mentioned off handedly.

She followed at a slow pace, the pace which he himself had set, idly observing her surroundings from beneath the veil of dark lashes. It seemed that this world was one of unending shadow, laced with rivers that led to who knows where and awaiting exploration. At several instances she'd pause and gather an inch or two of her dress upwards, careful not to slip on the mossy pathways. The light his lantern provided was gratefully accepted, her way clear and his guidance one that she valued in the shadows that seemed to come alive and engulf her.

His mention of the lake was acknowledged silently, her chin uplifted in a slight nod though he could not see it. She had always heard of the Lake Averne several stories beneath the Opera; of how, during the war, gun powder had been stored in the unfinished structure, though when sought out, was never found. And who better to ask the origin of such a Lake, or of the other  
mysteries the marvelous structure offered, than the very man who had assisted Garnier in his arduous task and who now reigned as keeper of this dark place. "Was the lake here when the Opera was built?"

"Unfortunately, yes. It posed a problem when constructing the opera house, though we had gotten past it with a few...modifications." Such as the house, and the various tunnels.

Lowering his free hand, he curled his fingers around the edge of the cloak, drawing it closer to his body to keep it from skimming along the dirtied ground. Being so close to the water there were little to no rats, though they did pass one or two along the way. The incline was steady, but minute enough where it wouldn't really be noticed. "We almost believed that we would have to move the opera house to another area, which would have been rather difficult. We made due. Constructing passages that lead the streams," he motioned to the one they were near. "..to the greater lake."

Christine moved along behind him, absorbing the path ahead of her with anticipated caution and here and there lifting her eyes to observe their surroundings. His kingdom was a vast one, no doubt of it. The reflection of his lantern on the water reflected from its glassy surface, danced over the cavern walls, illuminated the white of his mask that she caught a glimpse of every now and then. She was taken aback by its crisp clarity in the darkness, reminded of something distant and far off in her mind.

_The night he took you through the mirror ... _

Oh, but it seemed like a dream, that flight into some land akin to a fairytale. This landscape was different; dark, cold, uninviting. The passageways and corridors of their descent seemed so vibrant then, full of enchantment and warmth. Christine realized it had only been the gentle hum of his voice as he drew her down, down, down into the pits of her then unawakened soul that had shifted and changed the surroundings, and what reality she knew then was only the one he had created with and of his voice. She grew silent once more, giving only a tiny gasp when a rat hurried across her path.

Her silence brought his own, broken only by the faintest shifting of the lantern as he moved it from one hand to the other. Taking up the hold of his cloak just as he did before, this side was drawn close when they started along a darkened corridor. Time had no existence within this underground world. It could have been mere minutes or hours before the cooler feel of air would cascade through the tunnels. Then along the Rue they would emerge, coming through one of the gated exits. It was not too far from here that there was a carriage, waiting among the eerie mist that coursed over the lands.

Resting the lantern just inside, he turned down the light for it to be no more than a dimming flicker. Raising a hand he tipped his hat down subtly, shielding his face further within shadow, against the moonlight that threatened to reveal. It was to this brougham that he began approaching, his eyes slowly skirting the darkness for any other living being besides the slumbering driver. His eyes then turned back toward her, resting briefly, and she could almost swear that there was a faint smile in the shadows of his hat and pulled collar.

When they emerged into the faint light of the street, an immediate smile touched her otherwise taunt lips at the sight of the snow. Her first step upon the tightly packed substance was one that thrilled her to the soul and she could have sworn that somewhere out in the distance, beneath the light of a street lamp, a father and child played in the freshly fallen snow, the child's curls spilling from over her cloak and her smile as bright as her fathers.

It was but a product of her imagination, however. There was an empty landscape to greet them, save for the carriage that sat some feet off that they seemed to be moving towards. The breeze granted a chill and pulling her hands from beneath the protective cover of her cape, she urged the hood further top her nest of hair as they moved on.

Turning his head around to face the carriage, he traveled silently, save for the faintest crunching of the snow beneath his feet. Black skimmed across the brilliant white, dusting it to life only to settle back against the cool, frozen ground. When he neared the side, his fingers slid beneath the handle, gloved now, and gave it a twist to pull the door open. The stairs drawn down so she could climb upon them, he turned away so he could approach the driver and wake him with the solid thunk of coin.

She did not inquire of the origin of the horse and carriage, nor of the driver who willingly obliged this disturbance as if it were a regular occurrence. No, Christine but lifted her skirts and climbed carefully into the carriage, sliding with ease against the seat, cold from little to no occupancy. It did not bother her, however. Her skirts were thick and full, and her bustle shielded the chill as did her thick cape.

"Bois de Boulogne," he murmured quietly to the awakening man, who gave a tipping of his floppy hat, then slid down so he could remove the blankets from the ebony horse that was the carriage's lead. Stealing close to the door, he climbed inside of the cab, pulling up the stairs behind him with a hiss of metal to metal, then closing the door behind him. Once he was settled next to her, he rested back, and just moments later the horse was snapped into a canter.

"Have you been there? It is quite lively during the day.." He trailed off a moment, shaking his head faintly. Leaning forth, he took a hold of the window's blind, shutting it to shield them within darkness, lit only by the small lantern that dangled from the middle of the carriage's roof, casting angry shadows along the walls as the vehicle jostled lightly. The cloak was drawn around him, as if truly shielding him from the cold. Tipping his chin down he regarded the floor quietly, as if there was something that would speak the mysteries of the world. He wouldn't be so lucky, though. Gloved fingers splayed, resting along pressed slacks as he finally turned his head for shadowed eyes to rest upon her.

His question provoked a soft answer, her countenance riddled in shadow but nevertheless distinguishable. Her eyes left the inspection of the passing sights to meet his. "Only once, when I was in the Conservatoire." Such a sight it'd been. All of the faces of France, every class and unique type that came with it, all mingled together on one brilliantly green and fresh landscape.

An artist had asked she and Meg to pause for a moment to pose for a portrait, and as they stood in their ruffled dance tartans and shawls, their hair in braids and their smiles bright against that rich canvas, Christine remembered how she'd thought of her father then. Now, as she remembered the moment, her brow furrowed deeply. For all of the love she so paid for his memory, too often was it becoming a recurring trait in her desire to live.

The only thing that gave away the nod, was the shifting position of the mask, illuminated brightly within the shadows that enveloped the inner carriage. Tipping his head up, he glanced to the lantern, but made no move to dim it further or turn it off completely. The window was drawn, and he had no worries of someone becoming curious about the brougham that was traveling about the streets near the stroke of midnight. The driver knew better than to question, only follow directions and leave it at that. His passenger tended to pay quite well, making up for the business he lost from not being upon the main boulevard. If not doubling that amount. Closing his eyes to half lid, he kept his body slackened, rocking steadily with the movement of the cab. Had he but known her thoughts were already drifted that way...

"Your...father. Had he taken you about Paris before he passed?"

She had hoped that the thought of her father was the last, and oh how guilty she felt all the more for it! How long it had been that she'd carried around her grief with the vigor of a pious pilgrim on a voyage that never quite reached the desired destination. She longed so to be freed of the constricting grief, and it dawned on her then that it was all too suddenly she'd wished it, too.

Strangely, sweetly enough with the arrival of... Raoul.

Seeing that prominent image from her childhood was an all around encouragement. Just when she was convinced her living was over, her dreams dead and only revived in the moments she spent with an Angel of Music, the strapping boy from her younger days served as an example of what she could have been; what she _still_ could be. And for this, she knew she could not go back to him. Not when Erik had grown so angry with her when first Raoul had spoken to her.

_You'll have to choose. _

But not now.

She was brought to life again with his question, her eyes lifting from space to find his. "Oh, no. We were only here for a year before he grew ill. Professor Valerius would take me out with him sometimes on errands, but after he died, my time was divided between helping Mama Valerius and the Conservatoire."

"So you have not seen Paris," he sounded thoughtful – which, in fact, he was. This could turn out to be a very good thing. He could take her to places..._No_. Only wishful thinking. Just how pleasant would it be to go from one place to another in the mid of the night? She would not be able to see the glorious way the sunlight shone through the colored glass of the great Notre Dame cathedral, or the way the light sparkled across the rivers.

With him, her life would be shrouded in darkness, rarely knowing the vividness of the day.

He turned his eyes away from her, away from the cruel reminder of what he so felt should be, but could never. Try as he might to tell himself this, his heart simply wouldn't listen. The beast had fallen for the beauty.

Yet in this fairytale, her love returned wouldn't break the spell.


End file.
